Life's Great Lie
by Persephone Price
Summary: Loki intends to hold a naive Olympian princess for ransom in exchange for troops, but his scheme does not unfold as planned. Based loosely on Greek mythology, with a healthy dose of political intrigue. Post-TDW. Loki/OC
1. Abduction

**Author's Note: SO. This story is loosely loosely loosely based on the Greek myth the Rape of Persephone. I thought it might be an interesting concept, so I decided to see where it goes. Also my name is not actually Persephone, despite my pen-name, so this fic is not a self-insert lol. And the title comes from Loki's quote "Freedom is life's great lie. Once you accept that, in your heart, you will know peace."**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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**CHAPTER I**

**Abduction**

. . .

He takes her.

Her rips her from her planet, cruelly tears her away from everything she has ever known, and holds her for ransom. Not because she is the best or the most important or even the loveliest, but because she is the only one he can get his hands on. And so he must make do.

She is royalty, just as he is, her father the king of his own realm.

Desperation has driven him to occupy this role. Really, he is nothing more than a kidnapper, and it dismays him to acknowledge that he has sunken to such depths.

But Asgard is mutinous. There are daily uprisings and his control is tenuous at best. The people scorn him, call him murderer, call him _usurper_. He must put a stop to it through any means necessary.

. . .

Before this, she, a bastard, had lived concealed from her father's wife's wrath. Her life had been a tranquil one, marked only by halfhearted endeavors in the arts and whimsical interactions with no-name Olympians. She had never known anything so harsh as need or wanting, and her mother's tender surveillance had sheltered her from the brutalities and politics of the world that she had been born into. For no real purpose, she had been preserved as pristine and naïve, shielded even and especially from the numerous potential suitors that boasted similar pedigrees. Shielded from everything.

If she was never in the palace, her mother had thought, perhaps she might be safe. The tragic irony was that, all that time, she had been looking for danger in all the wrong places.

He came to her when she was alone, shopping in the marketplace. The day was, as all the ones before it and certainly all the ones that would come after it, beautiful. The sun gleamed high in the azure sky, warming her olive skin and ensuring agricultural prosperity for her people. Olympus was a glorious realm, one she was happy to call her home.

He caught her eye and she knew immediately that he was different. His clothing was dark, so dark, darker than anything she had ever seen. Just like the night, just like his eyes, just like his inky hair. The only thing about him that wasn't dark was his porcelain skin.

He was striking, yes, but she had assumed him to be some sort of foreign tradesman or mysterious traveler from the outer reaches of the empire, come to Olympus on business. She supposed, in retrospect, that this presumption hadn't been entirely wrong. _She_ was his business.

It wasn't until he had been following her for five minutes that she picked up her pace, an unknown and singular sort of terror sending a current of ice shooting through her veins. She glanced over her shoulder at him, startled, and he made no pretense of his intentions – he descended upon her swiftly, before she ever knew what was happening. The sound of apples spilling from her basket and onto the cobblestone floor was the only sound that echoed in the deserted alleyway.

As her senses became fogged by some sort of trickery or drug, the last thought that crossed her mind was merely _why_? She was insignificant.

. . .

She sleeps the first two days away. When she wakes, there is a weighty, sinking despair in her gut; the events stitch themselves together in her mind, mending the fragmented tapestry of her memory.

She sees his emerald eyes watching her, unblinking, as her gaze settles. His face is narrow and angular, defined by sharp features that look as if they had been cut from the purest marble. The crooked lilt in the corners of his mouth conveys a particular sense of malice.

"Finally, you're awake," he drawls.

_Who are you?_ "Where am I?" she questions instead. The words rasp against the inside of her throat, but they are melodious all the same. She takes in their surroundings: they are in some sort of dungeon, it appears, and the color scheme is a far cry from what she is accustomed to. Instead of warm tones, everything is cold – icy, even – and bluish. The palette reminds her of bruises, of death, and it scares her because it is so utterly foreign. She wraps her arms around herself, shuddering.

"You are in Jotunheim," he tells her, his voice lapping over her like liquid silk. He speaks so eloquently and with such beautiful diction that she almost forgets her initial fear – _almost_.

A look of hazy recognition washes over her features. "We have left Olympus."

His brow furrows in apparent disappointment. "Yes, we have left Olympus. Surely you are familiar with the Nine Realms – they _have_ educated you on that godforsaken planet, haven't they?"

He speaks to her as if she is a dull child, but she is too stunned to take offense. Her tutelage has in fact covered intergalactic history, but indeed his tone is so steely that she can only nod in affirmation. "Who are you?" she murmurs quietly, warranted trepidation lacing every syllable.

"I am Loki, King of Asgard and Jotunheim," he states boldly, straightening his posture.

She flinches at the word 'king.' He is young, too young to be king, in her opinion. She cannot fathom that he is any older than she and her estranged half-siblings, who all expect to be princes and princesses for the foreseeable future. Something about this 'Loki' is mischievous – playful, even, and not at all suited for her conception of a wise, aged King of Asgard. Indeed, though, he revels in the title; she can't help but think he'd been waiting impatiently this entire time to introduce himself so grandly. She racks her brain, but she cannot, in her flustered state, recall ever learning that Asgard and Jotunheim were united under one ruler. She actually vaguely remembers them to be sworn enemies. She thinks perhaps it might have served her well to have paid better attention to the current politics of Olympus' neighboring planets, or, conversely, that she is a part of something far more momentous than she could have ever imagined.

"And I presume you already know who I am, or else I wouldn't be here," she ventures, finding her voice.

"You are Persephone, Princess of Olympus."

"Yes," she acknowledges softly. "And why have you taken me?"

"I am in need of military support, and I wager your father is in a position to assist me," he informs her plainly. His words, though they are not comforting, seem to have a strange and inexplicably calming effect on her nerves.

"You're holding me for ransom?" she asks, growing bolder.

"I wouldn't phrase it so crassly," he starts, wrinkling the bridge of his pointed nose distastefully, "but yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose I am."

"You think my father, Zeus, will supply you with an army," she says, reasoning through her circumstances aloud. "And why is it you are in need of troops in the first place?"

He lets out a theatrical sigh. "It's quite a long story, you see, and it really is none of your concern."

For the first time, Persephone is indignant. Outrage bubbles in her chest, and she cannot contain herself. "You cannot be serious!" she protests.

His mouth twists into a grin, as if he is glad for some display of emotion; he'd begun to grow unnerved by her unnatural composure, until now. "I'm afraid I am, pet. Rest assuredly, I hope for both our sakes that your stay will be a mercifully short one and that the details of this exchange need not ever trouble you."

"You say you have taken me for ransom, that you need an army – Olympus and Asgard are allies! If you are truly king and you truly are in need of assistance, could you not have just asked for my father's assistance?" she demands.

His smile broadens, as if he is pleasantly surprised once more. "Clever girl," he murmurs. She is inclined to believe that he is sincere in his praise, but something in his tone is distinctly contemptuous.

He doesn't say anything more. Before she can press him to elaborate he is gone, vanished into thin air. She sinks to the floor where she stands, her face completely devoid of any visible emotion. She feels nothing. She isn't sure if it is the shock of everything – the whirlwind and devastating change – or simply her own stunted psyche that prevents her from experiencing the crippling sense of despair she knows her predicament merits. Her emotional reactions have always ranged within a very narrow spectrum, as was appropriate for her rather mundane life on Olympus, and this is decidedly beyond anything she is prepared to comprehend.

And so she sits on the cold, hard floor, waiting for him to return, waiting to cry, waiting to feel anything other than terrifying numbness.

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**Author's Note: Let me know what you think! I might not continue this, but I will if there's enough interest. Things will be better explained as the story progresses and future chapters won't be as short - this is kind of just like a test run to see what people think. Constructive criticism is very much appreciated! **


	2. Relocation

**Author's Note: Ok, so no one has reviewed yet, but I've decided to add the next chapter to give you guys a better idea of what the story is going to be like. I hope you guys like it.**

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**CHAPTER II**

**Relocation**

. . .

Heimdall greeted Loki when he returned to Asgard. Perhaps 'greeted' was not the right word – verbally accosted would have been more apt a description.

"I trust your furtive travels went as planned, My Lord," the golden-eyed gatekeeper started, not bothering to conceal the utter loathing that was entwined with every letter he spoke. While his title bound him to serve Asgard's king – whomever it may be – it certainly did not require him to take pleasure in his duty. He saw his position as nothing more than a pair of gilded shackles.

Loki smirked, delighted that such a powerful man hated him so but could do nothing about it. He had other means of traveling between planets, but he used the Bifrost for the sole purpose of irritating Heimdall. "Precisely as planned, Heimdall," he baited sweetly. "I know how my secretiveness distresses you so, but the need for discretion is of the utmost importance."

Heimdall's discourses with Loki typically forced him to swallow his pride, but this time he instead chose to swallow his words; he was silent as the newly crowned king strode from the room. He didn't know why he'd used the Rainbow Bridge or where he'd gone, and Loki's unique powers of trickery only served to further perturb him. His blatant deception did nothing but stoke the coals of an already roaring flame of hatred. Like most of Asgard, Heimdall didn't trust him and he never would. The man – god – Frost Giant – _whatever_ he was – had more than earned the nickname 'the God of Lies.'

Loki waltzed into the palace like he owned the place, because he did. All of it – the riches, the power, the throne – were his. He had everything he had wanted, everything Odin had had, with the notable exception of one thing: his subjects' adoration. And it was this harsh reality that he sought to counteract.

It did not matter to them that Odin was effectively dead, that Thor had forfeited the crown, or that Loki was truly and legitimately the rightful King of Asgard. It did not matter that he had assisted his brother in vanquishing Malekith and had readily endangered his own life for the cause, it did not matter that Thor himself had endorsed his reign. The people remembered only his past misdeeds, and so he was forever branded a traitor. There were whispers in the city, whispers that he had murdered Odin by his own hand and devised a way to control Thor's mind. He was almost flattered that they gave him so much credit.

He was despised beyond redemption, and he knew they would never trust him. So, he made no pretense of attempting to win them over – no. That was not his style, and he would never stoop to ingratiate himself with the masses of simple-minded Aesir. He instead sought to tame them, to break them, and to force them to bend to his will. To do this, he needed a type of military power that he so glaringly lacked. The battle with the Dark Elves had taken a sufficient chunk out of the Asgardian army, and the remaining soldiers were uneasy under his command. They, like everyone else, were wary of him, and even his magic could not shield him from a full-fledged revolt. Hence, the cause of his trip to Olympus and his subsequent transgression. If he had learned anything from his horrid experience with the Chitauri, it was that one should never enter any sort of political arrangement without first securing a bargaining chip. The princess was this chip. Whether or not Olympus was his ally to begin with, he could afford to leave no room for error. The only reason he had hidden the nature of his plan was to preserve Thor's support, which he so desperately needed.

This fact ate away at him like acid in his stomach. Even in his victory, he was second to Thor. His status was contingent on the word of the man he called brother; he was only king because Thor _allowed him to be_. This tainted everything, every document he signed and every decision he made. The thought haunted him when he placed that coveted golden crown on his head in the morning and equally so when he took it off at night. He was _still_ in his shadow, and he feared he would always be.

But this didn't mean he wouldn't do everything he possibly could to make it not so.

"Where have you been, brother?" the cursed blonde wonder boomed, clapping him on the back.

When Thor spoke to him like this, he felt a certain pull in his heart urging him to loosen his grip on the rage that constricted it. But these moments were fleeting. While their parents' (Frigga and Odin, Loki constantly and ruthlessly reminded himself) deaths had allowed the two to regain some semblance of their familial bond, they were still a long ways from where they had started. True enough, Odin was not technically dead; false news of Loki's demise, compounded with the murder of his beloved wife, had plunged him into an Odinsleep that the court physicians informed them he would likely never rouse from. If he did wake, it would not be for centuries. The people mourned the All-Father as if he were already gone, and so too they mourned the descent of Asgard into the hands of a man they called The Usurper.

"I had some business to attend to with the peasants on the outskirts of the realm," Loki lied with ease. "It was frightfully dull, as I'm sure you would have agreed."

"Indeed, say no more. Between the two of us, I have always said that you have more of a mind for strategy."

"Yes, it's not all adventures and quests and slaying monsters all the time," he sighed, forcing his lips into a tight smile. He wondered offhandedly if Thor was truly foolish enough to believe his word – he suspected that, in allowing him to take the throne, his brother had believed his hunger for power would be sated and had thusly lowered his guard. He had always thought Thor's doglike yearning to see the best in those he cared for would be his undoing.

"Won't you dine with me, Sif, and the Warriors Three this evening?"

"As much as I would like to, I have more pressing matters that I must see to. State affairs, and all that," he said, trying not to use as much sarcasm as the occasion called for. He wagered a half-truth was only marginally better than a lie, but he had since become immune to the concept of guilt and thought even such a meager effort to be an act of great courtesy.

"I understand," his brother said compassionately, disappointment shining in his aquamarine eyes. Thor's friends were less than ready to make amends with their wayward ruler, though the prince was insistent that they try – Loki's elusive behavior certainly didn't make the task of convincing them any simpler.

The tenuously reconciled brothers soon parted, and Loki made his way to his bedchambers. Since his predecessor was taking his Odinsleep in the kingly accommodations, Loki had opted to stay in his childhood room. He was not sure if his mental state was better or worse for it. On one hand, it was a constant reminder of happier times in his life; on the other, it was also a constant reminder of Odin's betrayal, which he could pinpoint as the singular moment that had sent him over the edge of wickedness.

But his true parentage was irrelevant. He was what he was, a king. Regardless of if his father was Odin or Laufey, this was his birthright.

The room, like his ostentatious wardrobe, was bathed in emerald hues. It was expectedly lavish and well maintained, though he diverged from the kings that came before him in that he did not allow the servants to clean it – he did any straightening up himself, which was easy enough given his talent for sorcery. A large window framed by green velvet curtains stood opposite his equally enormous bed. The aforementioned piece of furniture, like the rest in the set, was made of rustic mahogany. His plush feather mattress was encased in golden sheets and a green bedspread, and atop that laid a vast assortment of pillows and furs. In the center of the room there was an elaborately woven rug, and directly above it hung a chandelier made from reindeers' antlers that was overflowing with candle wax.

Loki tugged back the corner of the rug, revealing a trapdoor in the thick wooden floorboards. He opened it and studied his handiwork – he had been furnishing a sort of holding cell for a while now, and it was finally secure enough to contain his new hostage. He did not know what type of magic – if any – she was capable of, so he had taken nearly every precaution that entered his mind. It was soundproof and comfortable enough, he thought, and most importantly it was nearly impossible to escape. All he needed to do now was compose his message to Olympus and transport Persephone to Asgard.

While he knew this was a dangerous undertaking, he also knew it was just as dangerous to leave her in Jotunheim. While the realm was more or less deserted, he did not want to risk an enemy finding her there while he was away and exposing his treacherous scheme. She would be more secure under his supervision, though he took a great chance in smuggling her into the palace.

His letter to Zeus was concise, to the point, and polite. He did not wish to provoke him because he was in no position to start a war, but he wanted to present himself as a formidable adversary, should it ever come to blows. He made it clear that he had no intention of harming the princess and was deliberately vague in describing why he even needed the troops. He knew he must not reveal himself to be vulnerable. Furthermore, he warned the king not to divulge the specifics of the exchange. Confidentiality was essential.

He summoned his messenger, Hermod, and sent him to Olympus, instructing him to tell Heimdall that the parcel was a merely a formality to introduce himself as the new King of Asgard.

It was only after he received confirmation that the letter had reached its destination that he allowed himself to sleep. In the morning, he anticipated a response from Zeus and would then go to fetch his Olympian collateral.

. . .

Hermod was late in his return, which made Loki feel indistinctly nervous. He figured the probability of Zeus murdering his messenger was low, but he had heard that the man had something of a temper.

In spite of this minor setback, he nevertheless decided to press forward with his plan to retrieve Persephone from Jotunheim. He was too weary to antagonize Heimdall at this early hour, so he instead decided to take one of his alternate routes.

He found her lying on the floor, exactly where he had left her. She was asleep, her impractically long, chestnut curls splayed out in a fan shape around her head. He watched her for a moment, indifferent to her beauty. Such women were a surplus in Asgard, and very little about this particular one distinguished her from them aside from her dark locks. In fact, Loki was initially inclined to say that he preferred the golden hair that he had grown accustomed to seeing, but he later rejected this notion because it dawned on him that it was merely the standard of beauty he had been taught to adopt, and it was the very same standard that labeled him a pariah. And he had to admit he had always found the raven-haired Sif to be the most attractive Asgardian.

Persephone's arms were wrapped around her body as if she was cold, and Loki nudged her shoulder with the tip of his leather boot.

When she didn't wake, he cleared his throat loudly, and when she _still_ didn't wake, he snapped, "Girl!"

This did the trick, and she jumped to her feet in a panic. "What's going on?" she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"We are leaving," he said simply. As she processed his words, he cuffed her hands behind her back; she offered no resistance.

"My father has paid my ransom?" she questioned hopefully.

"No," he replied evenly, his tone betraying nothing.

"Then why are we leaving?"

"I am moving you to a more secure location."

"Asgard?"

He did not respond, and instead moved to gag her. This time, she did put up a fight; her efforts to squirm out of his grasp were futile, though, he and barely had to expend any energy to overcome her. She was immensely fortunate that he had no interest in doing anything more destructive, as she would surely be unable to defend herself.

It was simple enough to cast an invisibility spell on her – the difficulty arose in ensuring that she did not touch anyone, for then the ruse would be broken.

They returned to Asgard the same way he'd left: through the caves. He pulled her along using a transparent chain that attached to his wrist, that way it was not obvious that he was not alone. Walking through the palace was not as difficult an endeavor as he had expected, and Persephone was a surprisingly compliant prisoner. That said, she did not know she was invisible, and she also did not know that the rest of Asgard was not privy to this conspiracy. She did, however, seem to be docile by nature, which made his plan run surprisingly smoothly.

When they reached her holding cell, he unbound her and sent her down the stairs.

"This is where you'll be staying from now on," he informed her callously. "Don't bother screaming, no one will hear you and you'll only wear out your pretty little voice."

She looked around the room in acute dissatisfaction – the furniture was sparse, and there was very little light. "What am I supposed to do all day?" she demanded hotly. "There's not even a window to look through!"

"That is none of my concern," he snarled harshly. He slammed the trapdoor closed before any further, unsolicited complaints could reach his ears. He hoped for her sake that she would not prove to be too much of a nuisance.

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**Author's Note: Pretty please review and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading and Merry Christmas!**


	3. Negotiation

**Author's Note: Thank you so so so much to Pinky-Jin for reviewing! I hope anyone reading likes this chapter.**

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**CHAPTER III**

**Negotiation**

. . .

Loki exited his bedchambers, only to be greeted by a frantic Hermod. The mop-headed teen was barreling through the hallway so hurriedly that he nearly knocked into him, which would have ended very badly for the both of them, but decidedly worse for him. Luckily, the poor messenger skidded to a halt just in time to avoid a collision.

Wildly, he shook his fiery ringlets out of his face as he caught his breath. Loki, all the while, glared at him expectantly with one eyebrow cocked. A still-panting Hermod extended his arm and handed him a letter sealed with a wax image of Zeus' unmistakable crest: an eagle.

Loki tore the paper open almost violently and his pupils darted back and forth as they scanned the page. The air stilled in his lungs as he read the unfortunate news. When he looked up, he realized that the boy was watching him with great curiosity. Keeping his lips in a terse line, he did not allow his expression to betray any inkling of what sort of information the note might contain.

"You are dismissed," he spat. He peered down his nose at the boy as if being audacious enough to stay in his presence for too long were a punishable crime. He was king. He could make it so.

Needless to say, Hermod scampered away with the familiar gleam of fear in his eyes. Only then did Loki relax his posture and take the opportunity to properly contemplate Zeus' message. He was coming to Asgard; he was coming to Asgard _tomorrow_.

He was surprised when he felt the faint sensation of panic coiling deep in his abdomen; it was an inconvenient feeling that he hadn't experienced in a long while. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a candid moment of unconcealed agitation, only because he was confident that no one was around to witness it. How would he explain this? The letter had been exceedingly vague, even vaguer than the one it was sent in response to. It said only: _I shall travel to Asgard tomorrow to make negotiations_. Loki detested written correspondence because it made it infinitely more difficult to gauge the tone of the interaction. People's expressions, voices, and gestures were easier to read than the volumes that filled his library – _people _could be manipulated. Writing could not.

Loki resumed walking again, gaze fixed straight ahead as he attempted to shake off this unwelcome anxiety. The only course of action available to him now was _re_action, which he found distressing. While he could of course be spontaneous, he was actually far less off-the-cuff than many believed him to be. His tricks were so intricate and flawlessly executed (this was, perhaps, debatable) that they often did seem impulsive, but, in reality, he was far more comfortable when his plans were premeditated. He considered himself to be something of a micromanager.

He stormed into the kitchen, sending the staff into an astonished whirl of chaos. This was a place he never ventured, but the drastic change in scenery allowed him a brief respite from his uneasiness. He was hit with a wall of hot air and the scent of food mingled with the stench of sweat upon entering the room. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that these people were the same as he was – no, he thought, they were '_superior_,' or so he had always been taught. They were Aesir, and he was Jotun. His lip curled in disgust; it sickened him. At times like these, his confidence in his right to rule seemed wholly justifiable.

"S-sir, may we assist you in some way?" the portly head cook sputtered pathetically, struggling to match his pace.

"No," he sneered, grabbing to the two morsels closest to him. "I have everything I need."

He disappeared without another word, leaving, as he always did, utter discord in his wake. The sight and smell of paupers always disturbed him so, and he was glad to be rid of the offensive sight.

He did not realize that Thor observed him retreat back into his chambers.

. . .

Loki figured that, if the King of Olympus was to arrive tomorrow, he ought to ensure his bargaining chip had not yet died of starvation. He knew not precisely how long Olympians could survive without sustenance, but he speculated their physiology was more or less equivalent to the Asgardians'. This meant that there was no real risk of her wasting away just yet, but he was not certain in his calculations and so he decided to err on the conservative side. If, gods forbid, she was anything like the Midgardians, she would need to eat virtually _every single day_. How untoward.

In any case, he wrenched the trapdoor open roughly and was met with the sight of the pitiful girl's enormous, orb-like blue eyes staring up at him. If he'd had a heart, he might have been moved.

He carelessly threw her the drumstick and piece of fruit.

"Eat," he commanded. He took a seat and studied her from his perch above ground, his lean legs dangling over the ledge. Her appearance had changed very little in the past days, though she did look a bit dirtier.

He had expected her to launch herself at the food like a ravenous animal, but instead she stared at it mistrustfully.

"I assure you it's not poisoned," he sighed, his eyelids fluttering closed in agitation.

"You threw it on the floor," she remarked, glowering up at him. In that moment, she felt a ferocity that startled her; it was the strongest emotion she had ever felt.

His eyes flew open in apparent glee, as if this revelation amused him immensely. "That's what the trouble is?" He snickered, but beneath his mirth there dwelt a sort of thinly veiled rage. "It seems you really are a princess. Fine. Don't eat it, if it displeases you. It makes no difference to me if you choose to starve." On that note, he withdrew his legs and slammed the door shut, returning her to the darkness.

She hated Loki; in her thoughts, she would not permit him the title he so viciously esteemed. She hated him primarily because he instilled a visceral terror in her. Even she who knew nothing about the world recognized something in him, something that made him far more dangerous than anyone she had ever encountered. There seemed to be a hidden fury that warred against his express efforts to maintain a cool composure. It was a seething, volatile fury that simmered just beneath his skin. It could boil over at any moment.

It was tragic that, out of all the princesses in Olympus (and there were many), he had chosen to kidnap her. She was the meekest, the weakest, and the least savvy. There was no chance that she would escape this prison using either her wit or her might, because she possessed neither. She was useless, and she was not deluded enough to deny it; the cause was lost. She could do nothing but wait for her father, a man she hardly knew, to buy her back, like a stolen trinket – and not even a very valuable one, at that. This 'king' seemed not to know how little she meant to Zeus. She was his daughter by blood, and nothing more.

Persephone stared at the ruined scraps with tears in her eyes. Nevertheless, she prayed that he would come for her soon, and it alarmed her that he hadn't already. It had been nearly a week since she'd left Olympus, since she'd tasted food on her tongue, and her heart and stomach ached in equal measure.

The grime from the floor had destroyed the meat, but the fruit was salvageable.

She picked it up and brushed it off with the fabric of her dress until its crimson skin shined dully in the trickle of candlelight. Before she took a bite, she looked down at her dusty garments; her toga was purple and the irony mocked her. She wore the universal color of royalty and yet here she stood, a captive eating off of the ground. How far she had fallen…

She sunk her teeth into the pomegranate and its red-tinged juice flowed down her chin. The seeds contained within the thick husk resembled bloody entrails.

. . .

Zeus arrived in Asgard on a bronze chariot. The God of Thunder, he reminded Loki of Thor, and so he had already decided that he disdained him.

Speaking of Thor, the oaf was taken entirely by surprise when he saw the bearded king galloping through the city gates. "Loki, what is the meaning –"

"It is nothing but a simple diplomatic conference," he interrupted curtly as they stood together on the palace balcony. His brother often tried to advise him, but he walked on eggshells. It was as if he thought any disagreement might goad him into completely destroying Asgard, and so he restrained himself from voicing his gripes. This irked and pleased Loki in equal parts.

He watched Zeus enter the building and soon went inside to greet him in the throne room, leaving Thor to his puerile thoughts.

He saw his Asgardian guards escort the other king to stand before him from his gilded platform. As the man grew nearer, Loki noticed that his appearance was an only slightly distorted mirror of Odin's – this made two counts against him, and he hadn't yet opened his mouth. He was ancient but sturdy, with a thick silver beard. He wore a toga under some sort of elaborate armor, no doubt for show rather than function.

"Welcome," Loki spoke disingenuously. Try as he might, he could not stop his preconceived prejudice from infiltrating his tone.

"Hello, Loki Odinson," Zeus replied. His voice was gravelly, like that of a man who'd spent his entire life shouting on the battlefield.

The corners of the Asgardian King's lips twitched. Yes, he surely despised him. He dismounted the throne and stepped nearer to he who would perhaps be his newest foe. He measured himself up to his full height, but still fell an inch or two short of the Olympian. Though this irritated him, it could work to his advantage – Loki was often grossly underestimated due to his comparatively slight build, which gave him the element of surprise.

"Walk with me, Zeus," he said, insulting him with gratuitous familiarity.

Unfazed, Zeus complied as Loki led them away from prying ears, down a deserted corridor.

"So, as you know, I have Persephone Zeusdottir," he began, either unaware or uncaring that they did not use the same nomenclature in Olympus.

"Yes," the elder replied pensively.

"And you have read the terms of my agreement…"

"Yes," he repeated.

"So, have you come to accept my conditions?"

Zeus' sun-strained blue eyes looked directly into Loki's for the first time since their meeting. Suddenly he erupted into a thunderous laughter, causing the dark-haired king to flinch in surprise.

"Son," he said, gripping his shoulder much as Thor might, "I have come only to marvel at the ambitious new king who seeks to intimidate his father's oldest and most loyal ally. The girl means little to me – I have so many children, I would hardly have time for anything else if I were to spend my time watching over them. No, I allow them to make their own mistakes. Do with her what you will." His features darkened abruptly, and he lowered his voice to a growl. "But make no mistake of it – I come here, out of deference for your dearly departed father, to warn you. You would do well not to make an enemy out of me, boy."

Loki balked at him, rampant anger spreading through his veins like a plague. He struggled visibly to control himself; his fists clenched and unclenched by his side, his knuckles going even whiter than their naturally pale shade. He chose his next words carefully. "You would have me slaughter your own flesh and blood over a few troops?" he said icily.

"You will not kill her," he stated with remarkable certainty.

Loki indulged him. "And why is that?"

"Because if you do, I will be forced to wage war on Asgard. I do not wish to because I have many friends here, friends who I have fought alongside. But I cannot have my own people abducted and murdered without consequence. I have ruled for centuries longer than you have, Loki. I met you as a child, though evidently you do not remember me – I have no wish to fight you. I am a far more experienced king – you think I do not recognize your desperation? The morale in Asgard is low, and you are in need of troops to secure your own people. I am no fool. Do with my daughter what you will, but, should you kill her, you will come to understand why my wrath is so notorious."

Again, Loki was both flummoxed and enraged. Zeus saved him the trouble of responding. "Now that I have made myself clear, I shall be leaving. I will forgive this misstep and will not reveal your scheme, but I urge you – for your own wellbeing – not to cross me again. Tales of your deceitfulness have reached Olympus, so do not think that I am ignorant of your character. I know your history, I know why your hero of a brother is not the one who sits on the throne. He who spurns the corruption of power is surely more worthy of it than you. You will be under close observation."

Zeus began to walk away, and Loki turned his back on him. He stared vacantly out the window that overlooked the glistening lake, fuming. Electric currents of potent rage jolted his every nerve-ending, and he could not stop himself from snarling, "The next time you see her face, her lovely little head will be on a spike. And I shall deliver it to you personally."

Zeus turned to look upon the tense silhouette of his broad shoulders. He seemed to know it was an empty threat. "You would do well to heed my words, Loki Odinson." And then he disappeared, presumably to return to Olympus.

"Laufeyson…" Loki murmured inaudibly under his breath. _Laufeyson_. Sometimes, he did not know if he was fatherless or if he had two fathers; either way, he had killed both who had claimed the title. To keep from howling in fury, he bit down on his tongue until he tasted coppery blood. When he finally spun around on his heel, he was at least relieved to see that he was alone in the hallway. To be honest, though, he would have gladly taken his lethal frustration out on the nearest passerby. He considered doing the next best thing – killing the princess. But, unlike Thor, he knew better than to act rashly in the heat of the moment.

In fact, he felt almost sorry for her that he own father valued her safety so little. It was certainly something he could empathize with, and indeed Zeus' visit had been a horrid reminder of his own paternal abandonment. The word '_Odinson_' turned his heart to stone.

Regardless, he was now faced with the issue of what do to with her. If he truly wanted to, he supposed he could keep her as his prisoner indefinitely. He certainly had the constitution for it. Plus, there was always a chance that he might have use for her later on. So, for the time being, he decided she would stay in Asgard – after that discussion with Zeus, he sure as hell wasn't going to free her.

He ran into Thor on his way back into the throne room.

"Your meeting concluded rather quickly," the blonde prince observed suspiciously.

Zeus' comments about Thor echoed in his brain, and Loki was forced to break eye contact for fear of betraying his homicidal passion. Ever since Frigga's death, the urge to kill flared up every once in a while, like a chronic illness; the idea of murdering needlessly for fun or sport had never appealed to him until recently. However, he was proud to say he hadn't yet acted on it.

It went without saying that he was not in the mood to converse with his dimwitted brother. "Yes, it was a trifling matter. More of an introduction than anything else." However, just as he was going to leave, he remembered something that had been nagging him. "Did you know that y-" he quickly caught himself, "_father_ was very close friends with Zeus?"

"Yes, he mentioned it several times," Thor replied. "He said they had fought many battles together. He respected him greatly."

Loki's face was impassive; he wasn't sure how he felt about not having known this.

"Why do you ask?"

"No reason," he said immediately. "It's just that Zeus offered his condolences as if he knew him very well."

"I expect he did."

He nodded without a word, before continuing on his way; he felt Thor's eyes on him as he went.

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**Author's Note: I'm putting a lot of effort into this, so it would be lovely to hear some thoughts! Don't be shy!**


	4. Education

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to CuteSango07 and 'Guest' to reviewing! I hope everyone enjoys this chapter.**

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**CHAPTER IV**

**Education**

. . .

Soon, Loki began a daily habit of making trips to feed his prisoner, like a zookeeper. He might have considered the duty beneath him, but this task was not something he could delegate. The interactions between the two were always short and often wordless. They communicated primarily through their eyes; Persephone's reviled him like he was the most deranged creature the universe had ever seen, and his green ones shone brightly with arrogant smugness.

After a week or so, she was starting to look every bit the part of a distraught captive. Her face and hair were unwashed, and her cheeks had hollowed – though he brought her food, he did not linger to see if she consumed it. Evidently, she did not. Her once tanned skin had grown pallid, and all in all she appeared quite sickly. He was almost ashamed that he had let such beauty wither, but he found a new sort of beauty in her macabre transformation.

She had hardened. She was docile when he had taken her and she was docile still. She did not challenge him, and in fact she hardly ever spoke. But there was a feral quality to her now that had not existed before – there was a silent defiance in the lines of her face.

He found he quite liked it, actually. It intrigued him. So, now that he seemed to have broken her, he decided to show mercy – to end his experimentations and try something new. He thought perhaps that he might like to see what strange thoughts he could extract from her enigmatic little brain. She might even give him a clue to blackmail Zeus with. Since she did not, after all, provide the sort of collateral he had anticipated, he figured he ought to try to make _some_ use of her. She should at the very least provide him with entertainment.

His generosity began with a washing basin.

Her shock was evident in her expression when he brought it to her, but still she did not speak – not even to thank him. He did not press her for gratitude; when she did engage with him, he wanted it to be entirely by her own volition.

As the days passed, so too did the magnitude of his gifts. They progressed all the way to new garments, and soon, miraculously, she looked just as she had when he first saw her. But her silence remained bewitchingly impenetrable.

It was only when he brought her books that he was finally able to breach her stoicism.

She held the leather-bound texts in shaky hands, running her tapered fingers over the spines with a sort of regal delicacy that could not be taught. Her straight brows knitted together in bewilderment, she whispered, "What is this?"

"Books," he said dryly, stating the obvious. He tried not to let an air of triumph seep into his tone. "You are literate, aren't you?"

"Yes…" Her voice was hoarse from lack of use. She looked into his eyes, those blue gems surprising him with their intensity. "But why?" It wasn't just a question about the books – it was about all the other gifts, too. It was so unprecedented that she could not allow herself to trust it.

He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn't really spent any measure of time thinking about it. "I supposed you might like something to keep you occupied, and the books should at least do something to remedy your deplorable intellect; I find stupidity to be a most appalling vice. As for the other items I brought you, you were starting to look offensive. You might be here for longer than expected, and I should not like to torment my eyes and nose whenever I am forced to be in your presence."

If she was insulted or upset, she did not let it show; in fact, she softened her cagey demeanor. "You have not yet heard word from my father?" she asked.

Loki countered her question with one of his own: "Does he truly care so little for you that he has not yet noticed your absence?"

Persephone looked at the filthy floor, crestfallen. "I do not know my father well," she admitted. "I have only met him a handful of times. But I did not think I was of such obvious insignificance that he would make no effort to retrieve me."

He was startled and disappointed by her frankness. He had hoped she might prove to be a challenge to decipher. Even so, he continued, "One would think that your mother, the queen, might have some sway in his decisions."

She looked at him again, straight in the eyes. He was no longer accustomed to having people speak to him so directly, and he found it somewhat unnerving. Clearly, she thought them to be of equal status, despite her circumstances. He was surprised to find that this did not bother him. "My mother is not the queen," she said bluntly.

This was new information – Loki smirked in self-satisfaction. He _knew_ this would be a useful exercise. "She's not?" he probed.

"No. My mother, Demeter, is a princess – my father's wife is Hera, and she detests all of her husband's bastard children. They wander around the castle, their mere presence a constant insult – they are nothing more than an inescapable reminder of my father's infidelity. She makes no effort to conceal her loathing for them, which is why my mother did not permit me to live alongside her." She recounted this tale scornfully, as if she resented the fact that she'd never been given the opportunity to interact with her kin. Furthermore, she did not seem to approve of her father's many trysts.

He hid his mild interest well; he shared a certain solidarity in her plight of being an unwanted outsider. Playing dumb, he continued to interrogate, "Your mother, then – do you think she has noticed your absence?"

She nodded vigorously. "Certainly. She was always very protective – I have no doubt that she is searching for me as we speak." Oddly enough, any sense of hope was conspicuously missing from her tone. She seemed to (rightfully) doubt that she would ever find her.

Loki was struck with a brilliant idea, and he was immensely thankful that he had decided to show kindness to the fallen princess. He had received crucial information, information that would greatly facilitate his plan. He'd been trying to manipulate the wrong parent – and if he'd learned anything from his mostly-unpleasant experiences with women, it was that they were the key to making a strong man's will crumble. He needed to appeal to her _mother_, not her father – Demeter would take care of convincing Zeus to meet his terms all on her own.

Persephone noticed his contemplative silence and observed him with unabashed curiosity. She wondered what she could have said to evoke such meditation. His gaze flitted back to hers and she quickly looked away with a scowl, uncomfortable that she had been caught staring. He grinned wolfishly when he noticed the pink tint in her cheeks.

Having pity on her, he decided not to draw attention to it – it was quite possible that she could supply him with further intelligence, and he needed to be on his best behavior if he had any chance of coaxing it out of her. He had already distanced himself from her quite severely, and all he could do now was continue to bribe her; the gifts seemed to be serving their purpose. She had confessed to him so freely that he had begun to suspect she was actually growing fond of him.

Little did he know, though, Persephone was not in fact warming up to him. That said, he was the only living being she had any contact with, and she was effectively starved of social interaction. She was growing desperate in her isolation, desperate for anything to make her feel less like a caged beast. Loki spoke in pretty script even when he derided her, but his sophistication could not mask the utter barbarity of his actions. She had been reduced to dire lowliness. Words poured from her mouth as if they could mitigate this truth, as if the act of speech was the only thing tethering her to her sense of self.

Thinking only of her immediate distress, she did not see through his attempts to prod her into divulging some shard of serviceable information.

. . .

Persephone devoured every book Loki supplied her with. Time started to pass with increased speed as her mind gradually expanded. He restricted his selections exclusively to historical and philosophical texts; no novel or anything he deemed similarly frivolous would ever find its way into her dank cell. The tomes began to accumulate, and soon enough she had her own crude library in the corner by her cot.

On a subconscious level, both Persephone and Loki knew that what he was giving her was something far greater a few ratty old books. In fact, he was giving her a gift so valuable that it vaguely dismayed him. He was giving her knowledge; he was giving her power.

He told himself that it was because ignorance repulsed him, and this was true. It was a scourge in the palace and he was confronted by it every waking moment. But why should it make any difference to him if his prisoner was uneducated? It didn't. He simply did not think that he should have to suffer further idiocy when he dealt with her – she was already in such a disadvantaged state that it seemed rather harmless to give her something to read. May it never be said that he was not a magnanimous sovereign.

Because he understood well that once a slave became educated, he ceased to be a slave, and he could then no longer be ruled. And on some level, he was aware that in feeding her knowledge he was relinquishing a certain type of superiority over her.

Persephone soon came to learn this, along with many other theories. She enjoyed everything she read, the philosophy especially. When he ran out of Asgardian texts, he gave her Midgardian ones that he begrudgingly professed to be, "Not utterly worthless." These pleased her the most because they contained names and words that were familiar.

Each time he delivered something new, she nearly bubbled over with questions about what she'd just read. She didn't like to try him and she knew her unbridled inquisitiveness tested his patience; oftentimes he would not answer her. Sometimes, though, he would discuss the scholarly arguments with her or elaborate on historical events. Usually his answers merely begot more questions.

It was only in these instances that the desolation of her own predicament faded briefly into the background.

His outlook on these matters was often very different from hers, which made for heated but good-humored disputes. It puzzled her that he should recommend texts that directly contradicted his own opinions, but she was glad for it. His philosophy was just as twisted as she would have expected it to be.

What he was doing to her was a complex sort of torture. He gave her the tools to grasp the nature of oppression while he oppressed her; she read of freedom while she was in chains. She no longer endured physical discomforts, but she was now presented with psychological ones. Her eyes had been opened and she saw not a silver lining, but an infinite abyss. Now more than ever, she wondered _why_? Was it not enough to keep her against her will in this cave? Was he so nefarious that he would not stop until every aspect of her being suffered for a perceived wrong that she herself had not even committed?

These questions scratched at the inside of Persephone's throat, begging to be voiced. But he would never hear them, because she valued her life more than her liberty. The books distracted her from the injustices committed against her while illuminating new ones at every turn.

. . .

Loki came to find that he actually looked forward to his meetings with the girl who lived beneath his floorboards. She posed no threat, and so he was able to share his thoughts openly with her, as he might with a horse or some similarly inanimate creature; though she did respond, she never uttered even so much as a word against him. It allowed him the opportunity to communicate with someone in a relaxed state, which had become a rarity for him.

He was fully aware that the reason she did not refute him was rooted in the instinct of self-preservation, like the obedience he inspired in other areas of his reign. Still, there was a sort of comfort in being able to share his opinions on the nature of governing without explicit judgment.

Internally, he knew she was surely judging him. An entirely new, fierce spirit slowly displaced the dullness she'd been condemned to before. He could see it lying beneath the surface, itching to be freed. He had attempted several times to provoke her into revealing it, but thus far he had not been met with any success. Truthfully, he found it indistinctly fascinating to see how much an individual could change in so short a time – she had proved quite easy to train. In mere weeks, had made her company into something that he could at least tolerate. He knew not if he was exceedingly skilled or if she was exceedingly malleable.

The history books he'd given her had also provided Persephone with a new basis for understanding Asgard and how Loki's rule was something quite unique. From what she gathered, his ascension to the throne was shrouded in much interfamilial turmoil. He never spoke of these relations, of course, which she concluded was actually more telling than if he had. They were noticeably absent from his musings, and when he referred to his predecessor it was by the name 'Odin,' not 'father.'

She never questioned him about these slips; there was something sinister in the way he spoke of Asgardian culture that she did not want to unleash. He seemed to regard these people as if he were separate, apart from their civilization but still defined by it.

One day, she posed an inquiry that she considered innocent enough. "Do you have any siblings, My Lord?" She had taken to referring to him by this title because she could stomach nothing more formal.

"I have a brother," he said impassively. "Surely you must have heard of Thor, even in Olympus."

She nodded, features contorted in thought. "You are the eldest?"

Not answering her question, he replied, "It is far more intricate than that." And then he had left, his abruptness alerting her to a peculiar sort of underlying turbulence.

What Persephone was eventually able to glean by weaving together various disjointed threads of information was that there had been a great deal of conflict surrounding which of the Odinsons would wear the crown of Asgard, and Loki had come out on top through mysterious and dubious means. She found this unsurprising.

. . .

Thor was cleverer than Loki gave him credit for, this he knew. It provided him with a distinct advantage because he was able to try to unravel is brother's schemes undetected. He made no mention of the inordinate amount of time he noticed that his brother spent alone in his bedchambers, but he surveyed him silently, from the shadows.

His initial thought was that Loki was having an affair. This was an innocuous enough crime, given his existing repertoire, and the realization would not have troubled him.

But no – there was absolutely no evidence that there was anyone else with him when he slunk away, and he always entered and exited his room unaccompanied.

To Thor's chagrin, this forced him to assume that something more disreputable was transpiring. The idea to search his Loki's chambers crossed his mind, but he knew that the consequences of being caught would be disastrous.

Make no mistake of it: Thor did not fear Loki. But they were just barely reconciled, and the thought of doing anything to jeopardize this without any tangible evidence that something was amiss weighed heavily on his soul. Thus far, his brother's rule had been peaceful enough, and he seemed to treat his kingly duties with much care. The loss of their parents seemed to truly and deeply sadden Loki, and the notion of severing his last remaining family tie was unthinkable to Thor. But still he could not shake his skepticism. He lived under the impression that Loki's return to wickedness was imminent – inescapable, even – and that he would eventually be required to subdue him for the safety of the realm.

He wished this was not so, but the trickster king was volatile – that much anyone could see. He could only pray that in allowing him to reign he prolonged the calm that preceded this looming clash.

Because to stop Loki this time, he would surely have to kill him.

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**Author's Note: Please review and let me know what you think!**


	5. Confrontation

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to Alulysua and Karina for reviewing! I hope people are enjoying this so far. **

**Also I just want to clarify something about Persephone - this isn't going to be a story about her turning him good. I do think there's good in Loki very deep down, but this isn't going to be about her turning him into some benevolent ruler. Because I don't think that's possible; as a character, he's defined by his moral ambiguity (leaning towards evilness but not quite all the way there), and I have every intention of keeping him that way. If anything, he's going to prove to be a corrupting force on the world around him. So yeah lol. Just wanted to make that clear.**

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**CHAPTER V**

**Confrontation**

. . .

Loki wrote to Demeter straight away. If he were pressed to predict Zeus' actions, he would have ventured to guess that he kept Persephone's mother ignorant of the girl's whereabouts. He couldn't imagine that the king would want to deal with her distraught pleas, all the while hiding the details of the situation from his envious and shrew-like wife. No, surely Demeter did not know of her daughter's quandary. And he would be immensely glad to bring it to her attention.

He was not entirely fond of the fact that he would likely bear the brunt of the woman's fury, but such was the cost of victory. Zeus would undoubtedly find himself in a similarly undesirable predicament once the truth of the matter got out, and he would at least have the satisfaction of knowing he was the one who brought it upon him.

Because Zeus' refusal to give him troops was nothing more than a power play. Loki had done his research – he had the forces to spare. He denied him because he did not want be seen bending to the will of a younger, less experienced king. Loki would show him that he was a force to be reckoned with in his own right – he would show him that power could be measured in ways that far surpassed the size of one's army. Cunningness, he would make them learn, was the true root of all power. He would expose their farce; he would convince Asgard and all the other realms that their most esteemed virtues of were false creations of their own lack of imagination. The qualities they had spurned in him from the very beginning were the ones that made for a successful king. He would change _everything_; he would refashion society starting with its very core. He did not fit in this world, and so he would make a new one.

But this was a tangent – the task at hand was to inform Demeter of Zeus' indiscretions. He was not above exploiting matters of the heart to get what he wanted, and in fact he was quite adroit at it.

Hermod nimbly set off to Olympus before night fell.

. . .

Thor watched sternly from his bedroom window as Loki's messenger rode out of the city gates on horseback. He was greatly unnerved by his brother's surreptitious correspondences between the realms, and the peculiarity of Zeus' visit some days earlier had not evaded his notice. Loki was never one to strengthen bonds or alliances just for the sake of it; he was calculating in every action he took, so surely he was up to something and odds were whatever it was boded ill for Asgard.

Conflict was coming. He knew not what type, but a storm was brewing on the horizon.

Thor paced over to his washing basin and splashed cool water on his face; he felt a familiar sinking in his gut. All of this commotion and secrecy gave him a horrible sense of déjà vu, and he had the distinctive feeling that he should be readying himself for war.

. . .

Demeter entered Asgard alone and in the dead of night, cloaked in a purple veil. She had sent no response, no notice that she was coming. Naturally, Loki was thrown and quickly scrambled to arrange a private audience without anyone knowing. This meant, when Heimdall sent word that she had arrived, that he went in person to greet her at the palace gates.

Unbeknownst to him, Thor saw her when she entered their home and all his fears were confirmed: Loki was planning to act with or against Olympus in some significant way. He could not decipher the tone of this woman's visit, but for her to come alone it must have been to discuss a matter that was very much clandestine. What could his brother possibly be planning?

He quickly surmised that his best course of action was to eavesdrop. Keeping as quiet as he could, he followed the pair to a relatively small and deserted room in the center of the palace. Because it was so late, he could barely make out their forms in the murky torchlight. They whispered to one another, but their words bounced off the smooth marble columns that encompassed them.

"I see my dispatch has reached you well," he heard Loki drawl in his customary withering and condescending tone.

The other woman's anger was immediately apparent. "How _dare_ you have the audacity to address me in such blithe terms," she snarled almost rabidly. In spite of her vehemence, she had a specifically defensive air about her.

Loki, undeterred, continued, "Now, now, Madam, I implore you to try to quell your temper. I firmly believe these negotiations will best be approached with a level head."

"Do not speak to me of a level head, you murderous cretin! You have stolen my daughter, my only child, for no reason! It is an act of war, sir! I demand that you release her _at once_!" The woman, short and plump, stepped closer and closer to Loki as her ire grew. For every step she took forward, though, he took one back, fluidly dodging the accusatory finger that was pointed straight at his heartless chest.

In insulting him so outright, Demeter had expected the Asgardian King to boil over in outrage. However, his tranquil exterior did not waver even the slightest bit; in fact, the corners of his lips curled into a smirk, which eventually gave way to a full-fledged grin. His white teeth gleaming menacingly in the warm light, he said, "You say that what I have done is an act of war – but for this to indeed be the case, would not the father of your child, Olympus' beloved King Zeus, have to actually declare war on the offending realm once my crime was brought to his attention? He has been notified, and yet here I stand and Olympus and Asgard are still utterly at peace."

Demeter faltered visibly; though her figure was vastly different from her daughter's, her face was not. Her vaguely familiar features morphed from an expression of anger to one of despair. Quietly, she said, "I am aware that Zeus has not taken measures to retrieve his daughter, and I have already spoken with him on this very day. He does not know that I have traveled here, but I have done so to tell you one thing: Zeus _will not_ meet your terms. You will have to hold my daughter hostage indefinitely, because you will never be able bully him into appeasing you. I come, then, also to plead with you. You are young and you do not yet have children of your own, but surely you are still able to understand the strength of the bond between mother and child. Persephone may not hold the importance to Zeus that you had anticipated, but she is what I treasure most in this life. I could not bear it if you robbed me of ever seeing her again. Zeus will not meet your terms, but I will give you anything – _anything_ – that is within my power. I have many riches – would that not suffice?"

Loki was affected, but he did not let it show. "I do not have a mother, so I am afraid you will find that I am not empathetic to your plight. My terms are what I have already stated, and I will not waive them. If you do not think Zeus will comply, then I suggest you either make peace with the realization that you shall never lay eyes on your precious daughter ever again _or_ find a way to persuade her father to pay her due," he said coldly.

Her brow furrowed with confusion. "Frigga, Asgard's former queen, died very recently, did she not? I would think that you would understand better than most the loss of a family member."

"Frigga was not my mother," he snapped, pushing past the lump that had stubbornly lodged itself in his throat. "My true heritage is jotun, and I find myself here only because these people stole me from my home and raised me to believe a series of bitter lies. Forgive me if your pathetic sentimental appeals do not move me. Again, I strongly suggest you speak to Zeus if you wish to help your daughter. Your petty efforts at invoking pity are wasted on me."

Demeter stumbled back and looked at him in a way that he had seen numerous times before – she looked at him as if he were a monster, incapable of any sort of compassion. And perhaps he was.

"You are a merciless wretch," she told him spitefully. Despite her rage, tears welled in the blue eyes that were so very much like her daughter's; he was not swayed by her display. "May I at least see Persephone before I return to Olympus?"

His features completely impassive, Loki replied, "No, you may not. But I assure you she is unharmed."

"You must excuse me for not taking solace in your assurances." She smiled weakly and insincerely, defeated.

Loki did not budge or say another word – he simply glowered haughtily at her, silently urging her to take her leave. His steely grip on his composure was becoming more fragile as time wore on. Evidently, she comprehended his body language and began to back away. There was something venomous dancing in his hard eyes, something that was not perceptible elsewhere in his demeanor.

"You have not seen the last of me," she murmured, before turning her back to him. She strolled out of the room, her sandaled feet tip-tapping against the intricate tiles as she went.

When she was safely out of sight and earshot, Loki brought lithe fingers to massage his temples in an attempt to cast out the memories that tormented him. Frigga was dead. She knew not of his crimes, and she was immune to his slanders. Just because he did not reveal the true sentiments in his heart did not make them any less true – his mother would never know that he spoke ill of her in death, and his lies had served a tactical purpose. But still, the guilt could not be banished.

He was hardly allowed to dwell on this fleeting moment of humanity before Thor appeared, broad-shouldered and hulking as ever.

"Brother, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded gravely, his voice a low rumble in the otherwise quiet space.

"Were you spying on me?" His tone was more amused than affronted, and indeed he punctuated his question with a catlike grin.

"There is no humor in this matter, Loki."

"But indeed there is, _brother_," he sneered. "For who would have ever thought _you_ of all people capable of espionage?"

"You have kidnapped a princess from an allied realm," he stated, ignoring this slight. "What in the name of all the gods could have possessed you to commit such treason?"

"It is a very long and complicated situation, Thor. I would not wish to confound you with the details of it."

Out of nowhere, Mjolnir flew into the blonde prince's grip; he weighed the hammer in his hand threateningly. "I'm afraid you must," he growled.

Loki eyed the infernal weapon testily, before snapping his gaze up to meet his adoptive brother's blue one. "If you must know," he sighed, "I hope to secure an army to better manage the realm. Asgard has proved to be a bit unruly since I've taken the throne."

Taken aback by the trickster's apparent honesty, Thor said, "Have you so soon forgotten how poorly your last attempt at managing foreign troops fared?"

"Hence the need for collateral," he replied, arms outstretched as he willed the other to grasp his reasoning. He could practically see the gears turning in his mind.

"And so you torture an innocent? I will not stand for it. I understand your need for reinforcements, brother, but I cannot allow this folly."

Loki's features darkened rapidly. "You do not _'allow'_ anything," he hissed, acid lacing every syllable that left his tongue. "I am the sole and rightful King of Asgard, and I report to _no one_."

Thor's fingers clenched around his hammer, the veins in his exposed biceps bulging as he did. "Do not think I don't know why there is tumult in our city, Loki. I wish to support you, but I cannot do so when you commit such blatant acts of madness."

"It is not madness, it is strategy, though I suppose I should not expect the likes of you to distinguish between the two."

Thor had since grown immune to the insults that flew from his brother's mouth with every breath he took. "Ransoming a princess is madness," he insisted. "To keep an innocent girl against her will is _madness_. Where is she now?"

"That is none of your concern," he scoffed. "I assure you, I am hardly torturing her – she is very well attended to."

"And yet you keep her shut away?"

"Out of necessity, not cruelty," he answered quickly.

Thor considered his words for several moments, before changing the subject. "How could you speak of our mother – who loved you so dearly, even when no one else did – with such hateful callousness?"

Loki rolled his eyes dramatically. "Really, Thor, I would have thought by now you might have learned to recognize when I am so clearly acting," he spat impatiently.

This seemed to at least partially mollify him. "And you felt not even the slightest tug of sympathy for that poor woman?"

"You know better than most that compassion was never my strong suit," he said with a smirk. It dropped from his face when he said, "But I promise you that those words I spoke of our mother were only the foulest of lies. Regrettable but necessary, and entirely untrue all the same."

At this, Thor's expression softened. Their love for the deceased Frigga seemed to be the sole thing that united them, but it was a significant bond nonetheless. He seemed to give up the fight. "Your desperation for military forces is not unwarranted," he conceded. "But surely there must be another way to procure them?"

"I will make you a compromise," Loki said suddenly.

The other raised an eyebrow in interest. "I'm listening."

"I will let the girl free – allow her to roam the palace and the city as she pleases – so long as she remains in Asgard. We will tell people that she is an ambassador from Olympus, come to strengthen the alliance between the two realms."

"And how will you get her to agree? Surely she will flee the moment you release her from her bonds."

Loki smiled in that mischievous way that always caused Thor's stomach to roil with dread. "She cannot leave the realm without my consent and I assure you that she will tell no one of her true predicament. You know well how persuasive I can be, and you'd be surprised how easily the girl's mind is molded. I have no doubts that I will be able to convince her to accept these parameters."

The moment a begrudging sigh escaped Thor's mouth, Loki knew that he had won. Out of everyone, his brother had always been the most prone to his manipulations. "If you see to it that her stay in Asgard is comfortable, perhaps we can yet salvage diplomatic relations between the two realms," Thor allowed.

"I assure you that it will be _most _comfortable," he purred, earning a starkly disconcerted look from the other. "But alas, it is quite late – I shall release her and present her to you in good faith once morning comes."

He eyed him distrustfully, but said only, "Very well."

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**Author's Note: Happy New Year and thanks for reading! Let me know what you think! I think this is the most dialogue so far in the story, so I'm very interested to know if you guys think I've kept Loki and Thor in character. I worry a bit that I've kept Thor too passive, but I want to convey the sense that he's extremely weary of fighting his brother, especially after the loss of his parents. **


	6. Transformation: Part I

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to DKLL, CayDancer, and 'Guest' for reviewing! It really means a lot to hear what people think of the story so far.**

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**CHAPTER VI**

**Transformation: Part I**

. . .

"Wake up," Loki ordered brusquely.

It was quite early when he opened the trapdoor to Persephone's cell, allowing a rare cascade of light into the typically bleak room. Specks of unsettled dust glittered in the broken rays of sunlight and the crisp sound of his voice jarred her from an uneasy slumber. This was the second time she'd awoken to one of his commands.

Groggily, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes with the heels of her palms. Her pupils struggled to adjust to the change in brightness, and she had to squint exaggeratedly to look at him. The outline of his sleek hair was illuminated as the light rushed in around him like a halo. _How ironic_, she thought.

"Is something the matter?" she mumbled, sitting up in her cot.

"I have news that you will likely find pleasing." She could not see his expression, as his face was shrouded in the shadows, and so she had difficulty determining whether he was genuine or not. When it became clear that she was not going to chance a reply, Loki continued, "I have decided to allow you to leave this prison."

She forced her eyes to widen, staring at him in unfettered astonishment. "You're letting me go?" she sputtered.

"Not exactly," he hummed, smirking at her eagerness. "There are certain conditions you must abide by."

An affirmation almost burst recklessly from her mouth, but she stifled the exclamation of _'Anything!_,_' _knowing how dangerous that simple word might later prove itself to be. "Yes?" she said instead.

"First and foremost," he began, "you must stay in Asgard." The hopeful look that had crept across Persephone's features vanished without a trace. "You will be given free run of this realm," he added, "but – for reasons that are obvious, I hope – you must not discuss with anyone of the circumstances of your arrival."

She took several moments to gather her thoughts. She could leave, but she had to stay in Asgard… It wasn't ideal, but it was certainly a vast improvement from her current incarceration; she wasn't so prideful that she would refuse the offer. "How am I to explain my presence here, then?" she asked.

"My brother and I have agreed that we will tout you as an Olympian ambassador to Asgard, come here to strengthen diplomatic relations. You must make it exceedingly clear that you are here of your own free will. Do you think you can play the part?"

He watched, head cocked to the side, as her pink tongue darted out briefly to wet her lips. "Yes," she agreed tentatively.

"Good. Because otherwise," he gestured to her hovel, "it's back here. And without the comforts I have thus far so graciously provided you with." His eyes honed in pointedly on her jumbled stacks of books.

Letting her curiosity get the better of her, she could not stop herself from asking, "Why this sudden change?"

Loki threw her a careless glance that made her think he was contemplating ignoring the question altogether. He seemed to reconsider, though, for he said, "Your mother paid me a visit. She was quite distraught."

"My _mother_?" she questioned incredulously, dark eyebrows shooting upwards.

"Indeed." He articulated every letter, tasting the word, and began pacing above her. "In any case, her testimony was quite pathetic and I couldn't help but feel your total imprisonment might have been a bit of a drastic move on my part." He did not know precisely why he conjured this lie, but it flowed freely from his mouth in a way that unnerved him.

Persephone was nonplussed and narrowed her eyes, not sure what to believe.

"So long as you agree to honor these stipulations, I see no reason why you should not be allowed to at least wander the palace grounds," he continued lightly, pausing to look down. He squared his svelte body to her and extended his hand expectantly.

She took it reluctantly, climbing the rope ladder that had haunted her daydreams for weeks. His skin was cool against hers and she was surprised to feel a traitorous flutter in her chest at the contact. She grimaced, equal parts surprised, dismayed, and disgusted that her body could betray her in such a profound way. She convinced herself it was merely because she hadn't had even the smallest interaction with another living being in such a long time. They had been conversing for a while and, despite the fact that she felt like she knew him, she knew him only as her captor. He was wicked.

If Loki witnessed the change in her countenance, he did not acknowledge it.

Standing before him, she was able to examine him far more easily on equal footing – he seemed to have the same idea, and scrutinized her disapprovingly. "Might I suggest a lap around the gardens as your first act of freedom? You could do with a bit of sunlight." In all truth, she was really only as pale as he was – which meant that their coloring was now practically identical, barring the fact that her hair was slightly lighter.

Persephone resisted the urge to scoff at his use the word 'freedom.' Extending the confines of her prison could hardly be considered granting her something so lofty as this.

She picked her gaze up from roving his figure at the exact same time he did, and they mirrored one another; their eyes met, shining with mutual mistrust. Yes, he mused, she was very different from when he first encountered her.

They began to slowly circle one another in a sort of cautious dance. She stood at about the height of his chin, but somehow seemed much smaller. He chalked it up to malnutrition. She now had a fierce, hungry look about her that he found more appealing than her initial… he searched for the right word, before settling on 'softness' of both body and character.

"My mother is the reason for this act of mercy?" she clarified guardedly.

This was not entirely false. "Yes," Loki confirmed.

Feeling emboldened by her recent change in fortune, she snorted, "I did not take your for one to heed the pleas of a fraught old woman." She surprised even herself with the way she spoke of her mother, but her time in solitude had given her the opportunity to reflect on just how sheltered her life had been. She was resentful that all the knowledge Loki had bestowed upon her had not been taught to her earlier.

The Asgardian king, too, seemed taken aback. "You speak of her with such hostility," he noted, smiling gleefully. There was perhaps even a tinge of pride in his tone.

"Not hostility," she corrected, "wariness."

"Ah yes," he recalled, "you did mention before that your mother was a tad bit overbearing. But alas, I am not a monster, and it seems I have a weakness in my heart when it comes to a mother's entreaties." He placed his hand over his chest at this last sentence, sounding particularly insincere, even for him. She gave him a look that conveyed the thought that she _did_ in fact believe him to be a monster, and his smile widened. Even if he was telling the truth, no one would ever believe him.

Suddenly becoming grave, he sighed, "I suppose I should debrief you, if you are to converse with other Asgardians. There are certain facts you ought to know. Firstly, on the topic of mothers – mine died quite recently. Her name was Frigga, and she was killed at the hand of an enemy – Malekith – that Thor and I defeated. I was injured in the proceeding battle, and my father, Odin, was mistakenly informed that I had died. In his grief, he fell into a deep sleep, which is called the Odinsleep – it is very much like being dead, although it is possible that he might wake. In the meantime, my brother and I agreed that I would take the throne."

This summary was very much for Persephone to take in all at once. He said it with such facility that she nearly overlooked how tragic the content of his tale really was. If he too felt it tragic, he made no insinuation of it.

He turned his back to her, but seemed to quickly remember another point. "Oh yes," he added, turning slightly to peer at her from over his shoulder, "there's something else you should know."

An unexpected silence befell them as he remained facing away from her, showing only his sharp profile. She finally felt obligated to probe, "Yes?"

He hid his face from her, setting his sights out of the window. "I am not Asgardian," he said, voice low in both volume and pitch. "I am jotun, born the bastard son of the former Frost Giant king, Laufey, whom I slew to protect Odin. Odin abducted me when I was an infant and raised me to believe that I was his natural-born son. Obviously, his lie was eventually revealed."

She staggered backwards an inch or two under the weight of all the information he had just heaved upon her. She had never heard him speak like this before, and it suddenly made sense why he had never mentioned his family in any real capacity until this point. Eventually, he turned fully towards her. He had always been treacherous, but right now he seemed downright explosive; a current of electricity seemed to simmer beneath his placid veneer. There was something far too matter-of-fact about the way he spoke of these events, something that indicated a restrained flood of genuine emotion. It would have been more comforting for him to acknowledge this outright, but instead he kept his rage locked away, itching to break through.

He was relieved when she did not speak, because surely he would have snapped at her. But he saw sympathy glinting in her eyes and it revolted him. He was at least glad to also observe an underlying shadow of terror.

He inhaled a sharp breath of air through his nostrils and announced, "I have given word to my brother that I will present you to him when you are ready."

"Thor?"

"Yes," he affirmed absentmindedly. "Come." He motioned for her to follow him past the thick wooden doorframe to his bedchambers. Before she did so, however, she took a second for her eyes to flit over his décor, memorizing it; she wouldn't have expected anything less garish from him.

He noticed this and smirked slyly. "Perhaps this is not the last time you shall see this room," he whispered against the shell of her ear.

She felt her face turn a violent shade of scarlet as his hot breath lapped against the sensitive flesh at her neck. It was so uncalled for, and yet the suggestiveness of his comment also seemed entirely in-line with his overall disposition. Persephone tried to scrape together a retort, but she could not; her mouth was humiliatingly dry. Loki, conversely, bared his teeth in a predatory grin – she was far too easy to fluster. He was regretful that he hadn't tested this sort of experiment earlier, for she was clearly a most responsive target. Ah well. There was still plenty of time…

. . .

He found Thor waiting for them at the terrace overlooking the lake. The bright reflection of the sun on the water hit Persephone like a brick wall, and she could hardly see the figure that loomed in front of her.

"Persephone Zeusdottir," Loki presented with a flourish, bowing theatrically with insolent mirth in his eyes.

Upon hearing his brother's voice, Thor turned to face the pair. He took Persephone's delicate hand in his mammoth one, brushing his scruffy lips against it. "Thor Odinson," he introduced. His eyes instantly absorbed the sight of her, trying to determine how much damage his brother had done: she looked well enough. She was clad in blue Asgardian attire, which Loki had no doubt provided her with, and her person looked clean. Her hair, long and dark, spilled well to her waist in tangled waves – apparently he had not supplied her with a comb.

"It is an honor to make your acquaintance, My Lord," she said mechanically, curtseying.

"I trust my brother has explained the situation to you?" Thor inquired. Loki's eyes flashed with something unknown.

"Yes," she said hesitantly.

Thor grinned blindingly, and it was immediately obvious why even the women back in Olympus used to swoon over him; he was unimaginably charming, like something ripped straight out of a fairytale. When he and Loki were standing side by side, as they were in that moment, it was quite apparent that the two could not feasibly be related by blood – Loki looked like a sickly, devious interloper, while Thor looked every inch the part of Asgard's golden son. She almost pitied Loki. Surely everyone had juxtaposed him with this perfect Aesir specimen throughout his entire life, and he quite literally paled in comparison. It was easy to understand why he might have an inferiority complex.

However, she found herself thinking that Loki embodied a different sort of ideal; he had astute, intelligent eyes and a chiseled face that she could not help but find attractive. And while Thor was certainly burly and robust, Loki's wiry build was not so undesirable. She found even his unusual hair – glossy and pitch-black, like a raven's feathers – strangely alluring…

Persephone quickly banished these shameful notions from her mind – no. What was the matter with her? This man had destroyed her life.

_But those books... He has shown you so much_... one part of her brain insisted.

_He has shown you nothing but the inside of a cell_, another rebuked.

It was inexplicable.

She did not feel those very same 'astute' and 'intelligent' eyes upon her, measuring her reaction. He was searching for that abject and abominable sort of giddiness that took hold of women whenever they basked in the light of the mighty Thor. So far, she had impressed him with her stoicism – likely because his sultry proposition was still fresh in her memory. He was certain that Thor's radiance would soon ensnare her, just like all the others. For the time being, though, the reveled conceitedly in the observation that her pretty sapphire gaze lingered on _him_, even while in the presence of his brother.

Speaking of _others_, Sif's abrupt appearance soon interrupted their rendezvous. She glared at Loki as she always did, suspicious and mistrusting. Nevertheless, and perhaps even for Thor's sake, she fell into a short bow.

"My Lord," she greeted in a tone that told Persephone everything she needed to know about Sif's opinion of her king.

"May I help you?" he sneered in a way that made her think that, even if he could, he would not.

"I have come to speak with Thor, but I suppose it is just as well that you are also here – the Warriors Three and I were wondering if either of you plans to dine with us tonight. You have both been absent from the mead hall for several days, and you already missed the second night of the Midsummer festival." As the woman spoke, Persephone felt her eyes wander over her cautiously.

"Very well," Loki agreed haphazardly. "Although I never understood why it is necessary to celebrate something that lasts but one day for an entire week…" He hardly expended effort enough to look at her and waved the inquiry away with a distinctly dismissive and repugnant air about him, as if he wanted nothing to do with her. Persephone wondered vaguely if this could be attributed to the adoration in her gaze when she peered at Thor through her thick eyelashes.

Scowling, Sif turned her attention to the dark-haired Olympian. "I am Sif," she said, inclining her head slightly. Her tone was inviting enough, but still held the calculated suspicion of a warrior who was sparing with whom she chose to trust.

"Persephone," the other woman said.

"She is an ambassador from Olympus," Thor finished. "She will be staying here for a while to study Asgardian culture."

Sif's features relaxed and she gave Persephone a second glance, as if for confirmation.

"Indeed," she acknowledged.

"You simply must join us for the feast, then. You could have chosen no better time to come to Asgard than for the Midsummer celebrations."

Persephone turned to Loki, looking at him with something akin to deference.

"Yes, she simply _must_," he answered for her, sounding decidedly bored as he inspected his fingernails. She noticed offhandedly that he adopted an even more insufferable demeanor when interacting with his compatriots. He exuded an aura of familiarity when speaking with Sif – as did Thor – which gave her the idea that the three of them were at the very least well-acquainted, and possibly even childhood friends.

And so it was settled: Persephone would make the transition from weeks of virtual solitary confinement to partaking in a massive, nation-wide feast. What could possibly go wrong?

* * *

**Author's Note: I hope Persephone's internal monologue isn't too out of left field - she's supposed to have a sort of Stockholm syndrome thing going on. What do you guys think? Let me knowww :)**


	7. Transformation: Part II

**Author's Note: Thanks so much to CayDancer, DKLL, and 'K' for reviewing! And thanks to everyone else who has favorited/followed. I hope everyone is liking the story so far.**

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**CHAPTER VII**

**Transformation: Part II**

. . .

After their meeting with Thor, Loki did not loiter to chaperone her; he walked into the palace briskly, gliding along the marble tiles as though he had far more important matters to attend to. Persephone couldn't help but think that he probably did.

Sif must have sensed that she had no idea what to do with herself in his absence. She shifted her weight so that she was angled towards her and folded her arms over her armor-clad chest.

"Would you like a tour of the palace?" she offered.

Persephone looked at Thor, as if for assistance. "She has been exploring these grounds with my brother and I since we were children," he said with a jovial grin. "I'd wager she knows the palace better than I do."

The Olympian princess felt mildly proud that her small deduction had proved correct and she began, she thought, to better understand the dynamic between the three of them. The clearest thing she observed was that Sif was in love with Thor and Thor was oblivious to it. But there was something more; there was definitely something more. She was inclined to guess that – once, long ago – Loki had cared for Sif. When he was young, perhaps she had spurned him in favor of his brother. It would account for the animosity between them – he spoke to her with a wronged sort of loathing. If this were indeed the case, she could only imagine that it would add salt to wounds already cut deep by disparities in his and Thor's upbringing.

Whether she had conjured this entire history out of nothing, she feared she would never know.

Persephone allowed herself to be led away by Sif. Thor watched them leave, the corners of his eyes crinkled as he beamed.

"If you have only just arrived, how is it you have come to know Loki? You seemed fairly well acquainted," she ventured. Her tone hinted at something Persephone didn't dare even contemplate.

"Loki has been conducting relationship with Olympus for some time," she lied hesitantly, the taste acrid on her tongue. "I have come to know him during his numerous diplomatic voyages to my home."

"Ah. And how are you finding Asgard so far?"

"It is quite nice – very different from my realm in its climate, but pleasant all the same." She gave her a weak smile, not accustomed to this sort of deceit. But to her dismay, the more she spoke, the easier the act became. "It is remarkable how similar some things are, though, given that I am from an alien planet."

Sif grinned, revealing an enviable set of perfect teeth. "I should very much like to travel to Olympus someday," she told her wistfully as they walked through the hallways. Persephone tried to focus on her surroundings, but all she saw was a whirl of gold; yes, Asgard was very much like Olympus.

They soon reach the palace library, which astounded her – she might never have appreciated it before, but she surely did now.

Sif chuckled at her awe. "You like to read? I myself was never one for scholarly pursuits – I much preferred the swordplay and archery and all the things my father told me were reserved for _boys_. But I figure you must be, being a diplomat and all."

Persephone was only able to murmur, "Yes…" as her eyes tried to drink in the marvel in front of her. There were shelves upon shelves upon _shelves_ of books, and some of them looked older than Asgard itself. Shimmering bookcases lined every wall except for one, which was instead dominated by an enormous stained glass window depicting some sort of regal-looking figure. There were also several large, circular desks at which people might sit and study.

When the silence between the two women continued to stretch on, Sif said, "If you like, I could leave you to look around…"

She turned to her with grateful eagerness, but said, "Perhaps, if you wouldn't mind terribly?"

Sif smiled again; she really was incredibly beautiful. "Of course," she replied. "I'll see you at the feast tonight."

When she left, Persephone returned to staring. Her passion was so new that she did not even know where to begin. She approached the nearest shelf and skimmed her fingertips along a lengthy line of leather-bound spines. She chose the first book that struck her fancy, prying a relatively slim one from its resting place; luckily, she recognized the script.

How long she read, she knew not. Time might have ticked on for hours, given the number of pages she had consumed. She did not realize how immersed she had become until someone cleared his throat in the space across from her. Her eyes shot off the page, only to land upon the obscure figure of Asgard's king propped languorously against the vast doorway.

"I thought I might find you here," said Loki.

She closed the book suddenly, with a thud. He tilted his chin upwards, mouth slightly agape and readying itself to speak, as he approached. She could see his lower teeth peeking just above his lip, straight and white. "What were you reading?" he questioned, quirking an eyebrow.

Instead of replying, she slid the object across the table to him. His features softened in concentration as he read the title, and she realized with a start that his face looked laughably innocent when it was expressionless.

He broke into an unbidden grin. "_The Three Princesses of Whiteland_? An interesting choice, I must admit."

"Seeing as you found it fit to provide me with only – what was the word you used? _'Useful'_ – texts, I took it upon myself to read something a bit more lighthearted," she said cheekily.

"I believe the term I used was _'practical_,'" he corrected. Out of the corner of his eye, he stared at her with oblique interest. She had never spoken to him in such a manner, but he did not draw attention to it by reacting. There was a certain sense of comfort in her demeanor when she conversed with him. This was an unexpected and indistinctly vexing development.

"Ah yes, that was it." She seemed distracted. She was smiling idly and her gaze was fixed on her folded hands.

He tore his sights away from her. "Well, I'm glad to see you've regressed to an infantile reading level."

"Why are these books even here?"

"We were all children, once…" He was looking past her and out the window, far off into the distance, with his hands clasped behind his back. The response seemed random and she didn't know what to make of it.

They sat together in a natural silence for several moments, before she asked, "Were you looking for me?" She had the niggling feeling that he'd come to check on her to ensure that she wasn't trying to escape.

"Not particularly," he answered quickly and casually. He snapped back to reality, then, directing his attention at her as he felt her watch him. "Tell me," he began, sitting. "Do you like Asgard?"

"Does it matter?"

He hoisted his feet onto the table in front of them. "No."

"Then why do you ask?"

Leaning back in his chair, he shot her a sneaky smile. "I'm just curious." The explanation seemed loaded. The dreaded Loki could never be '_just curious_,' thought Persephone.

"I haven't really seen enough of it to have yet arrived at a conclusion," she told him, raising one eyebrow pointedly.

"Fair enough," he conceded, still smiling. "I hope you shall grace me with an answer in due time, then." He looked as if he might leave, and she felt the unfathomable urge to reach out to him.

"Does the Midsummer festival truly last an entire week?" she questioned abruptly.

There was a complete change in Loki's attitude; it was as though he had been doused with a bucket of cold water. His gaze flickered away from her again and his mouth grew taut in apparent agitation. "Yes," he answered plainly. As if he were alone with his own thoughts, he went on, "I tolerate the nuisance of it all because it keeps the peasants in good spirits. Usually Thor is the picture of exuberance –" he cut himself off, staring her dead in the eyes with an unreadable expression. "I don't know why I'm telling you this." There was something genuine in his confession.

"I don't mind…"

He searched her face, before evidently surmising that there was no harm in continuing. "Thor is usually quite enthused by the proceedings," he said a bit warily. "But this year he seems remarkably uninterested. I suspect it must have something to do with" – he faltered in his attempt to find the right pronoun – "our parents' deaths."

"Naturally," she agreed. "To loose them both in such quick succession must have been a hard blow."

This word – '_naturally' _– unnerved him. Whenever he heard it used in relation to Thor, it only drew attention to how _un_natural he was. What unnerved him even more, though, was that he hadn't realized how candidly he'd been speaking to his – his hostage. Because that's what she was – a hostage. Perhaps now she resided in a gilded cage, but she was a hostage nonetheless. He assured himself he had only slipped up because she was so insignificant – he might as well have been talking to himself.

And then he left.

. . .

Persephone, for the second time in only a matter of days, once again found herself thrust into an entirely new world. She had come to discover that, now, she truly only had the vaguest notion of her own identity. She was Olympian. Her name was Persephone. She was the daughter of Zeus and Demeter. Beyond that, it became murky.

She was an ambassador to Asgard? She was there to study the society and strengthen diplomatic relations? She was enjoying her stay?

At the feast, she was bombarded with questions, oftentimes to the extent that she found it difficult to keep her cover straight. Questions invariably gave way to more questions, and her mind would spin as she fabricated a back-story for herself. Yes, she was very well versed in the politics of Olympus, and yes, she knew Athena and Ares and all her other (half-) siblings. Was she? Did she? She couldn't recall. She said that was. She said that she did.

In an impossibly short span of time, her mind had broadened while her existence had shrunken. Now, her existence was broadening just the same. It was overwhelming.

And to add to her already-mounting confusion, her own heart had begun to play tricks on her.

Loki was a familiar face; in a sea of strangers, he was the only thing she recognized. And in this truth, it was hard to remember that it was also he who had flung her into this chaos. When she was scared – and she was always scared, it seemed – Loki was something that anchored her to… Well, to what she knew. Whether he realized it or not, he had utterly expanded her horizons. His initial intentions were despicable – this she could not even attempt to ignore. But it was equally true that the outcome of his actions had suited her well.

She did not feel like a prisoner in Asgard anymore, even though she knew she was. She was less than a day 'free,' as he called it, and yet the novelty had already worn off.

At the gargantuan table set up in the palace's great hall, Persephone was seated beside Sif. Thor was nearby, as were the 'Warriors Three' that she had heard about in passing. One of them – she could not remember which, as their names all blended together – consumed more food and wine than even Dionysus himself.

Loki was at the head of the table, next to Thor, in full regalia. He was close to her, but not within speaking distance.

She wore a purple dress that she had found folded on the bed in her new chambers – the chambers that an unnamed servant had led her to after fetching her from the library. The gown was similar to the one she'd worn when she first arrived in the realm, but with Asgardian detailing.

It was from Loki, no doubt.

She had other dresses she could have worn.

Eating dinner became something of a game. In this infinite mass of people, Persephone almost longed for the simplicity that had been stolen from her when she left Olympus. Often, she would cast her gaze at Loki, whose vacant stare indicated an equivalent level of discontentment.

She caught him watching her, sometimes. She would look away quickly, embarrassed, and once almost dropped an entire spoon into a bowl of soup in her haste.

Even though she was well out of earshot, she _swore_ she heard him snicker.

Eventually, when their eyes met, he would hold her gaze. Green irises twinkled with merriment, and a wily smirk was plastered to his face. She almost felt like they were sharing some sort of furtive joke, though she knew not what it was. It defied all logic, but it seemed as if they were the only two people in the room who truly saw each other through the fanfare. She unwittingly felt her lips tug into a smirk of their own and was forced to look down at her plate. It was perhaps more likely that this whole thing was just a ploy to cause her to laugh and make a fool of herself in front of all of Asgard.

Their game was not as secret as it might have seemed.

. . .

"You toy with her, brother," Thor accused.

"I know not what you speak of," Loki mused, eyebrows lifted in mock blamelessness.

After the dinner, Sif and the Warriors Three had taken Persephone to see the festival of the paper lanterns. The two Asgardian heirs had stayed behind, both too weary to continue their ruse of happiness.

The servants had cleaned and the great hall was now utterly empty. They were alone with the ghosts of their parents and the ghosts of themselves.

"I do not know what new trickery you have devised," said Thor, "but it is surely something truly contemptible, even for you. You torment her in every sense of the term."

"If you speak of the princess, I must assure you that I am not feigning my ignorance."

"She fancies you," he said bluntly. "You have twisted her mind in such a way that she does not know fact from fiction."

Loki threw him a sharklike grin from under the shadow of his ridiculous helmet. "It is no fault of mine if my natural charms have bewitched her."

"_Bewitched,_" Thor snorted. "Certainly."

Loki's smile fell away gently and he cast his gaze downwards. "Anything unseemly that you might suspect is wholly accidental," he said, sounding sincere.

Thor's thick brow was knitted together in doubt. He turned away briefly, then wordlessly spun around and tossed an envelope at his brother's feet.

His mouth stretched to a frown as he stared, unflinching, at the item. He raised an eyebrow once more. "What is this?"

"I pray you have not corrupted her beyond recognition," said Thor, "for it seems she may be going home soon enough."

"You intercepted my correspondence?" he said, vaguely impressed. "That is treason."

"I told your boy I would deliver it to you myself."

Only then did Loki look up at his brother. "I will have to have words with Hermod."

As Loki finally bent down stiffly to pick up the offending letter, Thor said, "You will not punish the boy. I'm afraid I may have coerced him into obedience."

Loki primly unfolded the paper, his eyes scanning the lines in rapid movements. "This says nothing concrete," he announced eventually, holding the page up for Thor to see.

"No, but Demeter believes she is close to convincing Zeus."

He crumpled the letter abruptly and tossed it into the flame of a nearby torch. "Meaningless."

"I ask you only to take care in your actions, Loki. It is possible that the time will come for her to leave, and she may not want to."

A bark of genuine laughter escaped Loki's throat. "I hardly think that's a risk, brother. Fair maidens do not grow so attached to me as they do to you."

Thor did not look convinced. "I have seen how she looks at you, and it is something familiar."

"I am not so sure," he sneered. "Perhaps you are confusing it with the look Sif has given you every day since we were children. Tell me that what you do to her is not torment."

The blonde prince snapped his eyes away, hurt. "We should not argue about such things."

Loki was about to protest, but soon thought better of it. "No, you are right," he conceded. "Perhaps I ought to exercise more discretion in the future."

. . .

At the end of the night, Persephone's brain was fogged with drowsiness and wine and she could not remember where her bedchambers were located. She knew the name of the room, but not where it was – Sif courteously volunteered to show her the way.

As they walked, she, also a bit drunk, questioned, "Persephone, are you truly a diplomat from Olympus?"

She looked at her with panicked eyes, like a deer in the headlights. "O-of course," she stammered. "Why would you ask that?"

Sif seemed not to notice her blunder. "Loki seems to have an unusual interest in you, and you in him. I feel obligated to warn you because, though I have only just met you, you appear to be a kind girl – Loki may be Asgard's king, but there are not enough comforts in the whole of the universe to validate a lifetime with such a foul creature. It is _Thor _who should be king, but he lets his brother have the crown because he is too tired to fight him for it." Her eyes flashed with frustration, especially at this last sentence.

By now, they had arrived at her bedchambers. Persephone attempted to piece together what Sif was implying. "Do you – do you think he's _courting_ me?" she asked in disbelief.

"There is talk that the Usurper needs a queen," she answered. "I would not find it surprising if he chose to look elsewhere for one, as the women of Asgard are well-acquainted with his crimes."

"I assure you that nothing of the sort is transpiring!"

Sif studied her face for signs of betrayal. Persephone continued, "What is it that L-the king has done that is so vile?"

She let out a mirthless chuckle. "Where do I even begin? To start, this is not the first time he has thrown Asgard's true king into the Odinsleep and upset the line of succession. Once, while Thor was in exile, he did the same. He tried to start a war with Jotunheim and exterminate all the Frost Giants."

"But he is Frost Giant, correct?" she inquired cautiously.

"Yes," she hissed viciously, as if his lineage explained all that was wrong with him.

"Long ago, did not Odin's father Bor exterminate the Dark Elves of Svartalfheim?"

"We thought he did, yes, but –"

"Is that any different than what L-_the king_ attempted to do? Perhaps he was merely trying to prove himself as the rightful King of Asgard by following in the footsteps of those who were worshipped as heroes before him."

"But they were his own people," Sif insisted. "And he did not try to defeat them through battle, but through trickery."

"Do the means of a conquest truly matter? And perhaps he sought to conquer them _because _they were his own people – it must have been devastatingly conflicting to learn of his true parentage. Perhaps he thought that in defeating the Frost Giants he could solidify himself as an Asgardian, despite his blood. It is not clear to me why he was treated as a criminal for these acts, while his ancestors – or those who held the throne before him – are venerated."

"You speak as someone who seeks to defend him," she snapped. "Even if there is logic in your claim, it does not justify the fact he robbed the throne from Thor, and it certainly does not absolve him of all the crimes he committed on Midgard."

Persephone grew quiet. Sif was right, and she was unsure of why she was defending him. Eventually, she murmured, "I have no wish to justify his misdeeds, only to understand them. If he is as formidable as you make it seem, Olympus must prepare itself for the worst. My sole desire to so protect my nation, and to do so I must understand both its foes and allies."

Sif's expression softened in the candlelight. "I did not mean to speak with you so harshly. I sometimes forget that women do not converse as passionately as men. But I assure you, I understand your concern." She flashed her a weak, tight-lipped smile. "I bid you good night – until tomorrow."

Each bowed her head slightly to the other, and Persephone's hand soon found her brass doorknob in the dim light.

Sif turned around to return to her own chambers; she only narrowly missed catching sight of a shadowy figure at the end of the hall.

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**Author's Note: This is an incredibly long chapter, so it would be lovely to hear what you guys think. What do you think of the characters? The dialogue? The pacing? Any feedback would be very much appreciated.**


	8. Realization

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to annabell, pestiilence, and DKLL for reviewing! I hope everyone likes this chapter.**

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**CHAPTER VIII**

**Realization**

. . .

Loki sat, frozen, on the edge of his bed. His eyes were wide and fixed on the rug, on that exact spot below which the fated trapdoor lay. The night poured in from his window because he hadn't bothered to draw the curtains.

He had known. Deep down, he had known.

But not the extent of it.

Sentiment.

It eluded him, yet again. It had been clear. The signs had been there. He should have seen them.

Was he careless, or was he willfully blind?

Thor had told him that the girl fancied him; this he had deciphered long before, from the very moment his fingers brushed hers. He was quite confident that there was nothing in the entire galaxy that Thor would notice before he did.

But she _cared _for him. This was different.

He was disturbed. How – _how_ had this happened? Should it bother him? Should it matter one iota if an infinitesimal girl exposed her long-sheltered heart to one of the most wicked beings in all the universe? It was not his fault that she was a fool. It was not his fault that he had done this. It was inevitable. He decimated everything he laid his hands on, so why should this be any different?

And why should it matter? Why should it matter if she was destroyed?

He brought shaky fingers to his brow in an almost delicate motion, before sliding his folded hands down to cover his mouth and nose.

It shouldn't. It didn't.

But once, _once_, he would have liked to prove everyone wrong. He would have liked to prove that he could execute a plan properly, without creating unnecessary complications at every turn.

This was not an expected complication, though.

He had heard Sif's words. Evidently no one thought him worthy of a woman's favor, or even capable of attaining it. Perhaps he should have been proud, then, that he had won her over. It was apparently quite a feat.

He had wooed women before, and indeed he thought himself quite proficient at it – they called him silver-tongue for a _very_ good reason. But what differentiated this case from all the others was that he hadn't even been trying.

Really, it was not so difficult a task; she had surrendered her heart to the very first man who whispered in her ear. He could have been anyone. Had Thor been the one to take her from her realm, to ghost his breath against her skin, their positions would have been reversed.

It was not his fault.

Why, then, did he feel guilt?

She saw him, or at least she saw part of him – she saw a part that no one else seemed to. Surely she was sick if she could come to love her jailer, but perhaps it was this that allowed her to see him. Perhaps it was this that alarmed him.

There was, of course, always the possibility that she had merely been acting. But no, why should she defend him in her charade?

He sighed, flopped back against the thick layer of blankets and furs that covered his bed, folded his hands neatly over his stomach, and tried to blink these thoughts away. They mattered not. If he ruined the girl, so be it. His ultimate goal could still be realized if her heart was broken. If he had to, he would drag her back to Olympus kicking and screaming to complete the transaction.

What was it that nagged him still? Why did this pathetic feeling linger?

He closed his eyes, and her image was etched into the blackness that dwelled there.

He felt… _something_. Something stirred in his diseased heart. Was it fondness? Responsibility? He had, in many ways, created her. Maybe that was why she was sick – maybe that was why she was sick enough to care for him. His talent for manipulation, for corruption, had apparently been elevated to new heights. He had given her the ability to reason and twisted it, twisted it inadvertently and just enough so that she would reason in his favor. Which really wasn't reason at all, because defending him was by definition unreasonable.

It hadn't always been like this; when he had kept her there, beneath his floorboards, she had not shared his logic. The only thing that changed was that she had been exposed – ever so briefly – to the world in which he lived.

Alas, it was now beyond his control. And he should have been beyond the guilt that followed, because surely he was beyond redemption.

But there was something else that troubled him. He needed Zeus' troops, and he needed them _now_. Sif was planning something. The bitterness with which she spoke of Thor being 'robbed' of the crown was unsettling – this, compounded with her love for the great lout, her hatred for him, and her prominent position amongst the Asgardian army, made him nervous. He feared she might incite a revolution.

. . .

Persephone did not know if Loki was avoiding her by coincidence or by design, but it had been three days since she had last laid eyes on him. Three days since the feast, specifically, and three days since their encounter in the library.

Starved just as desperately for human interaction as ever, she had taken to shadowing Sif. She was quick, clever, and kind, and at times Persephone could not comprehend how she endured spending hour upon hour with these thick-skulled men.

Thor and the Warriors Three were nice enough. They glowed, like stars – they were boisterous, ever smiling, and lighthearted. But there seemed to be an unfortunate type of vacancy beneath their gaiety. They lacked a certain… complexity.

Thor was, perhaps, not entirely guilty of this. His smile wavered when he thought his friends could not see him, and his gaze would wander into nothingness, as though searching an endless abyss for a sort of meaning that either did not exist or could not be found. There was an air of fatigue that undercut every boom of laughter. He was a damaged man.

Her thoughts, then, continuously drifted to the one who had damaged him. Loki.

She understood why he might both admire and scorn Sif. She as beautiful and cunning, but she wasted her time on an insatiable pursuit for valor. She was the epitome of lost potential, of Asgardian brainwashing.

Persephone did not know when she had begun to think in such a way. It was gradual, she supposed. The voice inside her head spoke in a smooth, masculine purr.

When she was not with Sif, she was in the library. She tried to ignore the faint, internal pestering that accused her of going there so that Loki might find her.

He haunted her.

In her dreams, she saw him; she had memorized that Cheshire grin, mentally noted each one of his thirty-two perfect teeth. She knew the way the corners of his eyes creased when he laughed and how his entire face would light up in glee. Without so much as a second thought, she could recall that the green of his irises amalgamated into blue and gray and even gold.

She was consumed by a secret and burning need to know _why_ he evaded her.

In moments of weakness, she almost sought him out. She wondered if it was a test. She wondered if he _wanted _her to seek him out.

She never caved. She read and read and read, until the words on the pages ran together and she knew not what she was doing other than attempting to distract herself from her own toxic thoughts.

. . .

It was on the fourth day of his hiatus that she finally caught a glimpse of him. Her eyes manically skimmed some sort of historical text about the Light Elves and her concentration was so fragile that it was broken only by the swish of fabric. Leather. She knew the sound well.

"Loki," she stated directly, looking him square in the eyes. She slammed the book closed, creating a small puff of dust.

His nondescript brows formed a wide and upside-down 'U'-shape in apparent contrition. "Hello," he greeted, sounding not at all like himself.

"Where have you been?"

His eyebrows rearranged themselves into a scowl. "What impudence my little princess has acquired in less than a week of freedom," he spat. "What right have you to speak to me with such forwardness?"

"Every right," she huffed audaciously. "As you have already acknowledged, I am a princess. You are hardly my superior."

His scowl contorted into a look of surprise, and then one of amusement. "Even the most basic custom dictates that a king is superior to a princess," he explained blithely. He treaded further into the room – hands clasped pensively behind his back – and examined the sprawling bookshelves. "In any case, I have not come to comment on your apparent metamorphosis." He shot her a fleeting, remonstrative glance, before continuing his monolog. "I have received word from your father." He issued another dramatic pause, mid-step, and turned to look at Persephone.

"Yes?" she prodded.

"He has agreed to my conditions," he told her. "You shall be free to leave as soon as the troops arrive." He waited for her reaction, watching her like a hawk.

Persephone turned her gaze away from him, onto to floor near his boots. She looked somewhat forlorn. And then she smiled – grinned, actually, and Loki's face became unreadable in his surprise.

A melodious giggle passed between her lips.

"You are pleased?" asked Loki.

She brought her eyes back up to look at him. "I suppose," she said, her mouth struggling to form words over her smile. "But that is not why I'm laughing."

He attempted to restrain himself from asking _why_, then, but he could not.

"It is ironic," she explained. "It's ironic that I found true freedom in captivity. I don't know how I shall return to my life in Olympus' pastoral outskirts. I don't know how I'll bear it."

Now it was Loki's turn to grin. His was different, though, and laced with malice. He inclined his head upwards and peered down at her through his eyelashes. "You think yourself free?" he sniffed derisively.

"In a different sense than I was before, yes," she answered, tone earnest. "I almost don't want to leave…"

This was precisely what Loki had feared, but she would never have been able to guess it. He sighed in agitation. "Alas, that is none of my concern."

"No, I would expect it is not."

She slid out of her chair, skirts whooshing across the floor as she went to stand before him. She moved with an effortless sort of elegance. Her grace, paired with her newly sharpened wit, made her far too exquisite for the life she described, he judged. But he swiftly shook these thoughts away, for they were mutinous.

She searched his face intently, causing a seed of apprehension to germinate in the pit of his stomach. "I wish to ask you something," she said grimly.

He spared her an indiscriminate sidelong glance. "Yes?"

"Did you intend for this to happen?"

He stepped away from her, putting a significant chasm of air between them. "I know not what you refer to." His expression was almost defiant.

"Did you intend to spoil me for my former life?" she clarified. She sounded far from perturbed.

He smiled a leery sort of smile, as if he did not trust the situation. "I must confess that I did not. It was but a happy accident."

"I suppose I could go to live in the palace at Olympus," she pondered aloud, no longer looking at him. "If my father will have me…"

Loki's line of sight darted to the door; he was growing bored, and he knew not why he remained to listen to her trivial musings. He allowed his curiosity to get the better of him and asked, "How could you possibly consider staying here?"

She furrowed her brow, meticulously weighing her response. "You asked me once if I liked Asgard; I do. I'm fond of the palace life…"

There was something more; it was as obvious as if she had said it outright. Loki pretended she had. "Have you so soon forgotten the circumstances under which you arrived here?" he hissed conspiratorially.

She looked at him briefly, before returning to her contemplation. It was as though he had asked a question that she herself did not know the answer to. "No… How could I?"

"Precisely," he snapped, louder. "How could you?"

"I haven't," she murmured.

He straightened his posture abruptly and turned his back to her. "It is for the best that you leave soon, I think."

"Perhaps you are right," said Persephone, gazing at him with a dreadful sort of longing. Setting her sights to the ground, she lifted her limp hand as though she might dare to touch him. He observed her out of the corner of his eye and his body tensed visibly in anticipation. Slender fingers curled into her palm as she then retracted it, reconsidering her choice.

Before her hand fell to her side, however, he spun around and snatched it up with remarkable agility. He held her ivory wrist in both of his cool hands, gripping it tightly, but not tightly enough to form a bruise. Dexterous thumbs massaged paper-thin skin, and then he used one of his index fingers to lightly trace the snaking outline of her blue veins, just barely touching her. His features betrayed a deep focus, and indeed he looked like he was charting some plan of attack on a sacred map. He felt her tremble in his loosened grasp and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment. He hazarded a glance at her through his eyelashes, never ceasing his feather-light ministrations. Her own thick lashes cast a shadow on her cheekbones until she opened her eyes. They met his and he saw everything. He released her immediately, as if she had scalded him; but it was she who truly felt a burn on her flesh, and it was in the shape of his hands.

He fled without a word, leaving her standing there alone and breathless, like a fool. Her heart thundered in her chest as though it might explode.

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**Author's Note: Pretty please let me know what you think, especially now that it's picking up :)**


	9. Insurrection

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to pestiilence, DKLL, and SirOlives for reviewing! **

**One quick note: The beginning part of the last chapter was what Loki _thinks_ Persephone thinks, not what she actually thinks. Haha sorry if that's confusing. Maybe he's jumping to conclusions, maybe he's not, that's for you to decide. What I'm hoping to convey right now is that because she's been so sheltered her whole life, she's kind of mystified by/infatuated with Loki and doesn't really know what to think. Her psychology/mental state is basically just a confused mess because of him. Hopefully that clarifies things a bit! If it doesn't, this chapter should still help illuminate what I'm talking about.**

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**CHAPTER IX**

**Insurrection**

. . .

Persephone could hardly comprehend what had transpired between her and the King of Asgard. The 'incident' in the library, as she had mentally dubbed it, was positively confounding. How could he push her away – tell her he was glad to see her leave – and still touch her like that? _Why_ would he still touch her like that?

She was just as confused by herself as she was by him.

Her treacherous feelings for him – just like Loki himself – had seized her unexpectedly from behind, giving her no chance to fight for her freedom or even cry out for help. They overtook her so suddenly and so completely that she'd never stood a chance.

The deluge had been brought on by the simplest touch.

In all this time, they'd hardly had even a modicum of physical contact. And they undoubtedly should have maintained this policy, because she'd had no idea she would react to him in such a way.

She was turned to ice and set aflame all at once. Her brain refused to function, like a clock submerged in water.

Certainly he had felt it, too. It was impossible that he hadn't, though it was possible that her inexperience had heightened her body's involuntary response.

How could she come to love something so evil? Was she a masochist?

He was the villain that stalked the corridors of Asgard's palace; he lurked in the shadows like a phantom, collecting secrets to use against his subjects. He was the jaded prince that brought an entire realm to its knees just because he desired a kingdom.

It did not matter that she had become worthier under his care.

Part of her obstinately clung to the belief that he might care for her too, but another, more logical part chided her for her stupidity. He could not love, let alone love _her._ She was doomed. Utterly doomed. He might have brought her here, placed her in this inescapable coffin, but she had hammered the nails in all on her own.

Her mad heart revolted against her mind and won.

. . .

Loki eventually arrived at the conclusion that his fondness (he denied it no longer) for the girl was explained wholly by her love for him – he could not help but be moved that such a creature could see his shortcomings and love him despite them.

She was a fool, of course. A tragic idiot. And her idiocy would be her downfall.

It went without saying that she would return to Olympus regardless of this unfortunate development, for his success was contingent on this agreement. He would kill her before he would renounce his troops. He would sacrifice his entire family if it meant his victory – and in fact he had –, so he felt not even the slightest hesitation in casting her away.

He would have preferred a smoother, cleaner break, but tidiness in matters of emotion had never been his specialty. He'd always had a knack for making an utter mess of things.

She came to him later, that very same night – the eve of her departure.

The whole of the palace was asleep. He should have been too, but in all truth he hardly ever slept anymore. She was quiet as a mouse and no footfalls had preceded the knock at his door. The sound was so faint that might have missed it if he hadn't been listening – and why had he been listening? Perhaps his subconscious had anticipated this meeting.

His door creaked open and he peered at her through the crack, in a state of undress. His nightclothes consisted of a simple, forest-colored tunic and a pair of black slacks. She was likewise compromised, wearing only an ankle-length cream nightgown. The candlestick she held cast exaggerated shadows across the contours of her face. Her eyes were obscured, but her expression was fierce and determined.

"I come only to speak with you," she prefaced, brow creased.

He stepped aside to let her pass without so much as a word, expression impassive.

"I do not wish to leave, Loki," she hissed passionately.

"'Your Highness,' will do just fine." He seemed not to notice the intimacy of the situation; they were in his bedroom and in their pajamas, which made the correction all the more absurd. "And you need not whisper," he drawled, the volume of his voice radically louder than hers. "I have long ago ensured that no sound escapes this room."

"I do not wish to leave Asgard," she repeated.

He tiredly rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. "…_And_?"

"You say you wish for me to leave, but I do not believe you."

Fearful of what she might go on to say if he allowed her to continue, his eyes snapped open to look at her with an intense burning in them. "You have forgotten your place, little princess," he snarled. "Despite the liberties I have erroneously granted you, you are still my prisoner here, and nothing more. You'd do well to remember that if you value your life. I am but your _captor._"

"How can you speak to me with such venom and lay your hands upon me with such tenderness?" she contended.

He sprang to life, rushing at her so quickly that she did not have the opportunity to react. Before she could even flinch, his lithe fingers were wrapped around her throat and he had her backed against the wall. He could feel the frantic pounding of her pulse-point beneath his grasp, betraying her fear.

"Would you rather I lay my hands on you like _this_?" spat Loki, spraying her face with saliva in his rage. "How truly imprudent you must be, to come here on your own and in the dead of night. Think how easily I might have my wicked way with you, while the entire realm sleeps peacefully through your heartrending shrieks." One hand still firmly limiting her air supply, the other fumbled over her figure, more to prove his point than any other reason.

"Do you think," he continued, eyes flashing, "that I am above this sort of brutality?" He tightened his grip on her neck, nearly lifting her off the ground with effortless strength; if she were mortal, he might have killed her then and there. "That because I have touched you with care I cannot just as easily violate you?" He stared her dead in the eyes, teeth bared in a grimace, and she could feel his hot breath on her face with every letter he spoke.

"Or maybe," he hissed, "this is what you _desire_." His thumb roughly brushed over her parted lips and she was forced to taste his skin on her tongue. "Why else would you come here? Why else would you ask to stay in the palace, if not because you hope to become the king's _whore_?"

He released her, satisfied when he saw tears of terror well in her eyes. She was speechless and nauseated in her horror. Woozily she staggered backwards, one hand cradling her throat and the other wrapped around herself.

A bit calmer, Loki began pacing and went on, "Perhaps it is my own mistake that I have not sooner showed you the true nature of my character. You have heard tales, but you have not _seen_. You have not seen the monster I truly am." To punctuate his statement, his skin turned an indigo color and his eyes blood-red. Strange and foreign markings emerged across his face, like raised tattoos or deliberate scars.

Persephone could only stare.

"This – _this _is what a Frost Giant looks like! Surely even in Olympus you've heard stories of such monsters! Forget your paltry fears of life in the countryside, _this _is something to be truly afraid of!" he howled at her in animalistic fury.

Some moments later, he inhaled a slow, deep breath in an attempt to compose himself and reverted back to his original form. His brow shone faintly with perspiration, tangible evidence of just how much he had worked himself up. He could not meet her gaze, but he was able to see her shaking like a leaf in his periphery vision. It pleased him that he had sufficiently frightened her.

In a modulated tone, he said, "If you still wish to stay in Asgard, by all means, stay. But if you wish to leave, leave now."

He did not need to look up to know that she fled as fast as her feet would carry her. That same poisonous infection throbbed in his heart as it beat, a sense of self-disgust setting in. He had been raised never to treat a woman in such a way, and even through his numerous and abhorrent prior transgressions he had avoided ever committing this particular type of foulness. It was not the rancor of his words that unsettled him, but he considered such manhandling to be base and lowbred. There were certain mores that even he tried to adhere to. Nevertheless, a melancholy smile unfurled across his face; at least now she finally saw him as everyone else did.

. . .

Persephone arrived at her bedchambers in a stricken daze. She did not remember how she had gotten from his room to hers. She knew only that when she finally arrived in safe solitude, she collapsed onto her bed and hugged her knees to her chest. Sobs caused her body to quake violently until her ribs ached.

She did not cry for her heart, though she might have if she were better aware of what had actually occurred. No – she cried only because her body could process no other response to her petrified astonishment. She wanted nothing more than to return home, to feel the comfort of her mother's arms holding her and her hands stroking her hair. She willed herself to forget everything she had heard or seen or even _thought_ in the past weeks; she wanted to separate that part of herself. She wanted to cut out the deadly illness that had taken hold of her, that spread through her veins and filled her with darkness.

His eyes were what she remembered most vividly about the trauma. Tempestuous and green and then _crimson_. They smoldered and they were fixed on her as though she were the bane of his existence. He had mustered such profound loathing out of nothing, out of a simple statement she had uttered on impulse.

She remembered his touch, too. Even when he had abducted her, he had not touched her with such violence. Never in all her life had anyone touched her in such a way.

He truly was a sadist.

She had been terrified back into sanity – he had snapped her out of the very same spell he had cast on her. She now knew with clear certainty that she must return home to Olympus. There was nothing for her here. Nothing but pain.

When morning drew, her eyes were sticky from the salt of her dried tears and her chest felt a singular sort of ache. This newfound clarity in her heart lowered her immunity and allowed a virulent spite to infiltrate it, to infect it with a different kind of sickness.

She hated him. She despised him entirely, with every atom in her body.

She wanted vengeance. She wanted to hurt him like he had hurt her.

There would yet be justice in her plight.

He was not the only one who could feel an unhinged and bubbling odium for the wrongs committed against him – and while the vast majority of his were imagined, hers were very, very real.

She would have her retribution.

He had molded this definition of unfairness in her and he had shown her the way to react; he had taught her to be devious. And now he would be on the receiving end of his handiwork.

Reborn, Persephone splashed cold water on her face and made herself presentable. She was scheduled to leave today, so she needed to act with all haste. When she was finished, she flew from her chambers and set out on a hunt to find Sif.

She eventually came across the raven-haired goddess in the courtyard, sparring with Fandral. If she noticed anything different about the Olympian's hardened visage, she made no mention of it.

Timing was everything in this endeavor and her task was simple: to set the first step in motion. The rest would follow naturally. You need only provide that fateful spark, Loki had shown her, and they would fuel the flames all on their own until they have burned themselves to the ground. Ashes would be all that remained of him.

"Sif?" she interrupted. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

Sif instantly laid down her arms and excused herself from the good-humored duel.

"Of course," she replied.

She took her aside, to a private area where they could converse in confidence.

"I am leaving today," she informed her in a hushed tone, "and there is something I should like to tell you before I go."

Sif's light green eyes shone with bewilderment and she protested, "But tonight is the final celebration of the Midsummer festival! It's the biggest celebration of them all!"

Persephone smiled wryly. "I'm afraid you'll find that I'm not in a celebratory mood."

"Why, what is the matter?"

"I would like to reveal the true nature of my stay here," she blurted out viciously, catching the other woman off guard with her vehemence. "I am not an Olympian diplomat."

Her Asgardian friend straightened, measuring herself up to her full height in ill-concealed expectancy. She had undoubtedly piqued her interest.

"Loki brought me here against my will, took me from my home and held me for ransom in exchange for troops. They will be arrive today, and I will be sent home." Persephone shot a calculated glance at the other warriors training in the courtyard. "Do with this information what you will, I just thought you ought to know before I am gone for good."

She turned and left before Sif could react.

It was only an hour or so later that a bronze chariot crossed the Bifrost and arrived at the palace gates. Persephone was there, waiting on the other side of the bars. She bid the guard to allow her to pass and stepped into the carriage; no doubt Loki had already instructed him to allow her to leave. On her way out of the realm, she heard a thunderous stomping as droves of Olympian soldiers marched into the city.

She left Asgard without a trace. Her sole legacy, she hoped, would be ruin.

. . .

Sif stood before her homeland's army, valiant and enraged. As Loki and Thor met with Olympus' forces, she riled Asgard's.

"We must put an end to this treasonous reign!" she shouted above the crowds. Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg hung nearby, seething but not as passionately so. "The Usurper continues to besmirch Asgard's glorious name, and we stand by and do nothing! Why, at this very moment he is greeting Olympian troops that he secured by abducting the blameless King Zeus' daughter from her home! He is a blackmailer, a murderer, a liar, and a thief! Surely you must all feel as strongly as I do that it is not he who was meant to inherit the blessed Odin's throne."

There was a rumble of agreement amongst the crowd. "The crown belongs to Thor!" one errant and brave soldier called above the masses.

"Precisely!" shouted Sif with a sly grin. "Loki is a vicious tyrant. He uses sorcery to solidify his rule and disgraces Asgard at every turn – it is Thor who should be king. The only reason he is not is because he holds an admirable sort of weakness in his heart for the one he so wrongly calls brother. But we know well that Loki is of jotun parentage and may never claim himself a son of Odin. In his veins runs the blood of Asgard's sworn enemy, of Laufey himself. We have a Frost Giant on the throne: this is madness, this is Asgard's darkest day. Loki has upset the line of succession and he has brought needless ruin and bloodshed to our people and those of our allies. If we allow him to continue this folly, we will have his personal enemies descend upon us and destroy Asgard. He antagonizes even our allies."

A clamor of consensus followed this statement, as the men grew more and more antsy with each word she spoke. They shouted various curses against their king, shuffling their weaponry menacingly.

"We must restore Thor as our rightful king and vanquish the Usurper once and for all!" she concluded, raising her double-sword high above her head.

A roar of agreement followed; the Warriors Three looked apprehensive, but receptive. They nodded in her direction, pledging their allegiance, but they seemed to be the only ones who truly comprehended the gravity of the situation.

"And what better day is there to bring justice to the realm than on eve of our most treasured holiday? We must take back Asgard!"

"For Asgard!" the others bellowed in unison.

Something revolutionary was underway.

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**Author's Note: Muahaha. A LOT happened in this chapter - let me know what you think ;)**


	10. Isolation: Part I

**Author's Note: Thank you so so so much to Anayellow, bekahleck, CayDancer, Kayla, DKLL, pestiilence, and SirOlives for reviewing! I was thrilled to see that so many people were kind enough to take the time to review :) I hope you all like this chapter.**

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**CHAPTER X**

**Isolation: Part I**

**. . .**

Loki addressed his new troops with an air of confidence he'd had his entire life to rehearse and perfect. They stood motionlessly in Asgard's throne room, out of place, like stolen figurines. Meanwhile, their allied king – in full ceremonial dress (helmet and all) – paced before them as if he were on a stage. Thor stood to the side, invisible but for his colossal form and royal finery. He watched his brother's performance with a conflicted mixture of admiration and circumspection; he could not help but think the bravado came too easily to him.

Both Asgardians could see that the soldiers were well trained. Clad in togas and metallic armor, their attire was exotic and alien. But the resilient stoicism that occupied all of their expressions was familiar and promising.

There was a sudden and unexpected deviation in the play. Like a rogue member of the audience, Loki's copper-haired messenger flew into view without warning, a wild look in his eye.

The untrained observer would have recognized no reaction on Loki's part – but Thor knew better. There was the slightest tremor in his hands, a barely perceptible twitch that went almost universally unnoticed. Before he could verbally eviscerate the boy – as he likely planned to do –, Hermod hissed something in his master's ear, capturing the sound in cupped hands. The only change in the king's countenance came in the form of a thin-lipped frown.

Once his urgent message had been relayed, the messenger made himself scarce. Loki was left standing tensely in his wake, a look of blank surprise etched onto his features. He readjusted the front of his costume-like leather coat. While he was suddenly quite glad that he had forgotten to punish the boy as he had vowed he would, he was equally livid and alarmed. He had made a gross miscalculation.

He lowered his gilded scepter to the ground, bracing himself against it, and turned to face his mercenary army. Thor's face adopted a look of great distress, so much so that he nearly summoned Mjolnir then and there; there were sparks flying in his brother's eyes.

"Men," Loki grit out, sounding entirely different and far more menacing than he had initially. "It seems your arrival could not have been more aptly timed." He grinned broadly, as if to disguise his lethal dismay.

The soldiers shuffled ever so slightly, sandals scraping against the marble tiles.

"My kingdom, it seems," he began, "grows restless and unruly. I have sought most ardently to manage my people with munificence and diplomacy, but I am afraid the necessity for force has become inescapable."

"Brother, what do you mean to do?" interrupted Thor, voice thick and husky with dread.

"SILENCE!" he shouted fiercely. The suddenness of his command slashed through the stillness in the room like a blade. He could hear his own heartbeat hammer in his ears against the deafening quiet that followed.

Thor flinched as though he had been physically struck.

"This realm must be taught a lesson," continued Loki, with more vigor. "You will descend upon Asgard's forces until they are utterly, totally, and completely broken in both mind and body, and then you will continue to ravage them until but _one_ soldier remains. He shall beg for mercy, he shall cry for it, but you will not give it to him. You will then bring this surviving soldier to _me_ and I will tear his flesh from his bones and string him up by it, displaying him in front of the whole of the kingdom where he will serve as an _example_. Then – and only then – will this miserable planet see peace."

"Loki!" protested Thor.

"And you will start with him!" Without looking at the prince, he beckoned his finger towards him. "Take him to the dungeons! And bring the leaders of this folly to me, so that they might be properly dealt with!"

Thor fought tooth and nail against the men, but even he and his mighty hammer were no match for 10,000 of Olympus' best trained troops, though he did succeed in taking out a good number of them. They managed to separate him from Mjolnir; it took four of them to bind his arms behind his back.

"I _beg_ you, Loki, have a care!" he howled, complexion going red in his exertion and desperation. Even as they dragged him away, he did not relent in his effort to talk sense into his brother. "All you have done – every act of penitence, every noble deed you have committed since your imprisonment – will be for naught! You shall never be forgiven, and your reign will be remembered for the terror it caused until the end of time! Is that truly the legacy you wish to leave? Is that truly how you hope to assert your birthright? As a tyrant? Remember, brother, remember what happened the last time you sent a foreign army against an innocent people!"

"Innocent?" scoffed Loki. "Do you really mean to assert that an unfounded revolution is a blameless act? I have thus far conducted myself as a just ruler, and the people have expressed their gratitude in rebelling."

"Is it not unjust to punish the masses for the actions of but a few?"

"Certainly, and that is precisely the point – justice has failed me. I am the infected limb of Asgard that they cannot seem to sever… They will resist me until I have irreparably shattered their spirit."

"You must have patience, brother – your misdeeds are not so soon forgotten, but they will be in time."

"Enough," murmured Loki, tone deadly. "I should have known you would betray me."

Thor's golden eyebrows knitted together in genuine puzzlement. "I had nothing to do with this," he insisted.

"So Asgard's army seeks to place you on the throne all on its own accord, does it?"

He could tell instantly from the subsequent look on Thor's face that this was indeed the case and, if anything, it only made him angrier. It did, however, also make him rethink his plans. Part of what made him so formidable was his unpredictability and the changeable nature of his scheming. Victory would not be attained through a rash slaughtering of an Asgardian faction – he had to be farsighted. His rule would be more successful if he made an example of a few and allowed the others to live on under the constant, weighty fear that their lives depended on their obedience.

He did not continue to hash out this dispute with Thor in front of his new troops, as he had already said too much. Their discussion would be resumed in private.

"Find the ones responsible," he ordered. "Bring them to me. Kill anyone who stands in your way. The troops have yet to march – we will squelch this rebellion before it even begins."

At least somewhat relieved, Thor allowed himself to be carted away.

. . .

Soon enough the Olympians set out to obey his orders, and only then was Loki finally left to his own festering thoughts in the throne room. The enormous chamber was empty, so utterly empty that the sound of his own breathing echoed off the smooth walls. A guttural, unexpected shout of rage tore through his throat, a piercing cry against the blanket of silence.

He was not certain of what had actually occurred, but he had an idea. However, he would wait to fully express his wrath until he had confirmation, and confirmation would only be attained once the culprits of the revolution were brought before him to answer for their crimes.

He had been a fool to think he could ascend to the throne without incident. He had been a fool to think the culture he had been raised in could come to accept him, when it had rejected him all his life.

His mother's words, uttered what seemed to be so long ago, rang in his mind. _"He kept the truth from you so you would never feel different."_ But he had always felt different, ages before he had learned of his jotun parentage. He was hated because he was different and different because he was hated. He was a corrupted, in-between creature – not Aesir but not quite jotun, either. He had no place in this world or in any other.

It was ironic, he reflected, that Odin had found him in a temple.

They would never tolerate his rule under peaceful circumstances; he had been uncharacteristically naïve to think they would. He was cornered, backed into this display of cruelty – they had forced his hand. There was no other way.

In no more than three hours, two of his Olympian commanding officers – Andronikos and Diokles – returned to the throne room, a bit bloodied and bruised but generally unharmed. With them they brought Sif, Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg in chains. At the sight of them, Loki shook away flashbacks of when he had been brought back to Asgard after having invaded Midgard.

"How many casualties?" was his first inquiry, articulated with a glaring lack of emotion.

"Twenty-one, Your Highness. They were quick to surrender once they saw how outnumbered they were," answered the swarthy Diokles.

He merely raised an eyebrow, before stepping down from his throne to address Sif, who stood at the front of the line of four. She was no doubt the leader of this insubordination.

"Well, well, well, this comes as no great surprise," he snarled at her.

Chin held high, she haughtily spat, "My only regret is that we did not have sense enough to act sooner."

"It is a regret that will cost you and your friends your lives," he said offhandedly, shooting a passing glance to the Warriors Three.

"Then we shall die with honor," she replied bravely. "When your wretched reign ends – and it _will_ end, Loki – we will be remembered as the heroes who opposed this shameful age."

He laughed malevolently in her face, causing her to shirk back in response to the abruptness of it all. "You think the people of Asgard will hear of this inconsequential obstacle? Your names will be scorched from this world and from the history books alike – you will be remembered for _nothing_."

At this, the brightness in her clear eyes dimmed. Loki's lips curled into a smirk, knowing he'd struck a nerve.

"It is that girl who betrayed you, who told us of your vile plan to use her as leverage in order to terrorize the people you so falsely claim to rule," she blurted out, hoping to injure him in some way. "I initially thought she was harboring some sort of affection for you, but evidently you revealed to her the blackness of your heart."

Loki would stomach this insolence no longer; with a callous wave of his hand, he ordered, "Throw them in the dungeons. Ensure that they are separate from my brother but still in sight of him."

. . .

Loki had no wish to execute his brother. Deep down, he knew that all the wrongs Thor had committed against him in their childhood and before his fateful fall from grace were unintentional. Thor was a steamroller of a man – he razed down all that was in his path without even realizing it. It was a flaw in his design, not in his character. He could not help that he was superior to his brother in nearly every way, and he did not have the intelligence to register the implications of it.

In some ways, this knowledge only made Loki feel more bitter; however, it also persuaded him to go down to the dungeons to speak with his adoptive brother. He smiled evilly at his other four criminals as he passed their transparent cell. Not long ago, he had been in the very same position – it was unbelievably satisfying to see that now their roles were reversed. Sif scowled at him, still defiant, but the Warriors Three looked worried. And rightly so, for they were living out their last hours.

Thor was sitting on his cot, looking across the hall at his friends in a mixture of sadness and disappointment. Loki easily phased an image of himself into the stark, white holding chamber.

Upon seeing him, Thor stood abruptly.

"Brother," he said in a rush. "It is Sif and the Warriors Three who orchestrated the attack against you?"

"Indeed," allowed Loki. "Evidently you are not to blame, after all." As he spoke to him, he noticed that his eyes were instead fixed on Sif. "She will have to die, you know," he added softly after a moment.

Thor snapped his gaze to Loki. "Surely that is not necessary," he protested.

"She defied her king and tried to raise an army against him," he stated matter-of-factly, "that is the highest display of treason, and so her death and the death of her cohorts are _entirely_ necessary."

"Loki," pleaded Thor, "we grew up together – I know that even you remember this. Fandral and Volstagg and Hogun... We have been friends for as long as I can recall! Think how many battles we have fought together, how many feasts and misadventures we have shared! And Sif especially – we have watched her grow from girl to woman just as she has seen us grow from boys to men. She is like a sister to us!"

Loki smirked again. "I think she might contest you in that regard," he quipped.

"You know very well what I mean to say. They are not some common rabble-rousers – they are our _friends_!"

"They are _your_ friends!" snapped Loki. "There were never mine."

A tense silence fell upon them; Thor did know that there was truth in his words. Eventually he asked, "What was it that started the uprising?"

"Persephone informed Sif of my deceit," he said darkly. "I underestimated how she would react to my rejection."

"Rejection?"

"She approached me and I rebuffed her advances," he explained simply enough. "I thought her affection for me would shield me from this sort of betrayal, but clearly I was mistaken. It is fortuitous that Olympus' army arrived when it did."

The wheels in Thor's mind churned for several long moments, before a bemused look washed over his features. "You rebuffed her because you reciprocate her sentiments?"

Loki staggered backwards, brow creased in a frown. It quickly contorted into a grin, however, to convey his amusement at the ridiculousness of the prospect. "That is an awfully large conclusion to leap to, and an spurious one at that."

"You must," insisted Thor. "Otherwise you would not have taken the risk. You spurned her because you felt the need to punish her _and_ yourself for growing fond of her."

"You are wrong," he growled, eyes glimmering with unrealized anxiousness. Thor's analytical skills were nonexistent, he told himself; it was madness to even entertain the possibility that he could read the inner workings of his mind, let alone before he himself could. He could not help but suddenly feel once again like Thor's _little brother_ and it enraged him.

"I do not wish to quarrel with you," he sighed. "I never have…"

Straightening himself, Loki replied, "I will release you from these bonds, for you have committed no crime against me. But do not think even for a moment that I hold anything other than indifference for that useless trollop – no, strike that – I hold great loathing for her, in light of the recent events."

"Your affairs with her are no business of mine, not now that she is free," Thor conceded, "But you build walls around yourself, brother. The people can see this – it is why they cannot bring themselves to trust you, it is why our _friends_ cannot bring themselves to trust you. You can amend this – you can grant them pardon and prove that you are a just, merciful king."

"You speak to me once more of mercy and justice, but you do not comprehend how they elude me. Twice have I resigned myself to death, and twice has fate cruelly intervened. It mocks me, returns me to this cursed place time and time again. I have tried to let myself die, tried to do the noble thing and stop this cycle – I do not know what led '_our friends,'_ as you call them, to believe that they could be any more successful. Perhaps it is beyond any of our control; perhaps it is predestined that I shall bring destruction down upon Asgard. I have endeavored to be a benevolent ruler, but to what thankless end? Cornered now and faced with insurrection, I believe the time has come for me to realize my true purpose. I will never have the peoples' respect," he finished, tone clipped, "so I will settle instead for their fear." The words poured savagely from his mouth like an unstoppable flood, and he soon feared he was compromising himself. Without another sound, his form dissipated into thin air. In his wake, the walls of Thor's cell dematerialized.

Thor stepped out of his prison and strode to where Sif and the Warriors Three were being detained. He put his large hand against the glass with a sort of melancholy reverence, and gold chain-links rippled fleetingly from the point of contact. The deep sorrow in his gaze was what finally crumbled Sif's resolve. She stared at him with tears in her eyes, before placing her hand on the spot where his was. They stood like this for several seconds, before Thor turned and left.

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**Author's Note: I hope you all liked it! What do you think Loki should do with Sif and the Warriors Three? Was he in character? I've been reading some political theory texts and I think that might be impacting my portrayal of him lol. How about Thor? I'd love to hear your thoughts!**


	11. Isolation: Part II

**Author's Note: Thank you immensely to CuteSango07, bekahleck, 'Guest,' and Karina for reviewing! I hope everyone likes this chapter!**

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**CHAPTER XI**

**Isolation: Part II**

. . .

It never rained in Olympus, but it was raining now.

The city's typically sun-kissed terracotta roofs were bathed in gray, and the streets were barren and silent.

Persephone stood on the canopied balcony of her father's palace, trying desperately but not succeeding in settling into yet another new life. It had been a week since she had left the realm in which she'd been a 'captive.'

Speaking of which, she had, perhaps conspicuously, heard absolutely no word of what went on in Asgard following her departure. This planted a deep sense of dread in her belly, for she was confident that Sif had acted against Loki using the information she had given her. The fact that she had heard not even the faintest mention of an uprising only made her fear the worst: that Sif had failed. Loki, no doubt, would execute her and all those who had contributed to this treachery.

Their blood, she could not help but think, would at least be partially on her hands.

The saccharine sound of her mother's voice roused her from these morbid musings.

"You have been ever so morose since your return," commented Demeter. She walked to stand beside her, but was wary of approaching the water-soaked railing on which Persephone rested her arms without a care. She seemed not to notice the parallel gloominess of he demeanor and the weather. "I would think you would be in better spirits, given that you are now home."

Persephone's blue eyes flitted briefly to her mother's face, before returning their focus to the world below. She made no reply.

"You have asked to live in the palace, and your father has kindly acquiesced," the older woman continued. "I should think you would at least be glad for this."

"Just as he acquiesced to _pay_ for my return, it took him far longer than it would have taken any loving father. He did not even have the courtesy to welcome me home or relay this news to me in person," she replied dryly, with something vaguely derisive in her tone.

Demeter regarded her daughter as if she were seeing her for the first time, before turning her attention also to the horizon. "Sometimes I think that that place has changed you permanently for the worse."

She snickered darkly. "If enlightenment is a vice, then I fear you are correct."

"Where have you learned to speak with such bitterness?"

Persephone finally tore her gaze away from Olympus to stare at her mother with a burning intensity. "You _know_ where," she replied, voice low. But both knew it was not a question of _where_, precisely, but of _who_.

Unsettled, Demeter felt the need to break eye contact. She put her hands up in resignation and said, "Sometimes I think you wished to stay in that hell. I might have expected this insolence from you as a child, but you are a woman grown."

"Until recently I had been kept a child," she murmured.

Demeter's dark brows knitted together imploringly and she looked upon her daughter once more, studying her. "You had been kept _innocent_," she corrected. "I know not what occurred in Asgard… I know not what that evil brute did to you – but whatever it was, surely you must know that you can confide in me."

With a sigh, she dismissed, "There is nothing to confide. I merely realized my true worth in this universe – 10,000 soldiers, as it turns out. What do you think father would have paid for his beloved Athena? 100,000? A _million_? What about Artemis, hm?"

"Stop it," chided Demeter. "You sound like an envious wretch."

"Am I to appreciate the status my parentage has afforded me, then? To go on living in this palace and pretend as if I do not know that if you had not so relentlessly nagged my father to secure my return I would remain a prisoner in Asgard?"

"You are to appreciate the knowledge that you have a mother who loves you more dearly than anything else in this realm or in all the others," she insisted, "And that is more than many of your father's children can say for themselves."

Persephone's expression softened some. "You are right, mother. I am grateful." She faced her fully and spared her an embrace. When she pulled away she said, "Truly, though, Asgard is not so horrible a place as you might think."

"You mean to say you enjoyed your time there?" she demanded in disbelief.

"Not enjoyed, no. But I cannot deny that the experience affected me in innumerable ways, some positive."

"I spoke with that man who calls himself king," she hissed. "He is a soulless creature."

"Perhaps," allowed Persephone.

Demeter got the impression that there was an underlying caveat in this simple response. Her eyes suddenly grew black with rage. "Did he –"

"He did not," she replied hastily.

"Because I swear, if he laid so much as a hand on you –"

"He did not," she repeated although it was a lie. She knew not why she protected him. "He is incurable in his wickedness, but it was nevertheless he who educated me in the ways of the world."

Demeter placed her aged and freckled hand on her daughter's now-bony shoulder; she had grown gaunt in her internment. "You have endured a great trauma," she said, "but you will come to realize in time that not all of life is so cruel."

Persephone flashed her a mirthless smile. "Yes, I hope you are right," she agreed only to end the conversation.

. . .

Feasts in Olympus were very much like feasts in Asgard, Persephone soon found. There was more wine and less clothing than in Asgard, but all in all the sentiment was quite the same.

Many of Olympus' elite had taken a shine to her – she was a novelty, a newcomer in a world in which everyone was so well acquainted that their relationships were practically incestuous. Hermes and Apollo, especially, attempted to win her over with their various talents, which were mostly confined to musical endeavors.

Persephone quite liked Hermes, to be entirely honest, but he was notorious for his numerous romantic entanglements. He had a head full of tawny curls and a long and lean – almost boyish – physique. There was a mischievous quality in him that reminded her a bit of Loki, but without the malice. All his pranks were fairly innocent and good-hearted enough, even if they did occasionally cause Aphrodite (ever the dramatic one) to shed a tear or two.

Apollo, though, was the most charming god. His flowing locks were golden blond, and his angelic face was clean-shaved with a pointed nose and keen sapphire eyes. She could not help but think that his features were an exceedingly pleasant mixture of Thor and Loki's – he seemed to embody both their best qualities. Any woman in Olympus should have been lucky to win his favor, but Persephone wanted none of it. Her heart had been tainted, and she feared it would remain so for all eternity.

After the dinner, he approached her in the courtyard.

"Would you care to walk with me through the gardens, My Lady? You are so newly arrived to the palace, I should like immensely to become better acquainted with you. If you should also wish it, of course."

It had since ceased raining, but the atmosphere was still dreary. Nevertheless, Persephone – eager to distract herself – replied, "Alright."

As they strolled, she cast her gaze to the stars above. Through the fog, they shined like Asgard's floating Midsummer lanterns against the black sky. They were different from the stars she had grown accustomed to, different from the ones Loki was likely peering up at that very same moment. Persephone quickly redirected her attention to the dirt beneath her feet.

"My Lady?"

She snapped her head to look at Apollo, who was watching her intently and had apparently been speaking to her.

"I'm sorry, my mind was elsewhere – what did you say?" she apologized with a forced smile.

He smiled back kindly. "I asked if you are enjoying living in the palace so far," he said. "You have been here for nearly a week, yes?"

"Yes," she affirmed. "And yes, I prefer the palace life to life in the countryside. I have spent much of my time exploring the library. The collections are rather impressive, especially on the subject of philosophy."

"I have seen you there," he admitted. "I myself spend much time amongst those dusty books and scrolls – I've never interrupted you because you always seem so wonderfully absorbed in whatever it is you are reading. Olympus certainly is a paradise for someone with an interest in philosophy."

"Indeed – you have an interest in philosophy as well?"

"Oh yes," he replied, nodding. Persephone took a moment to examine his beautiful face – he was almost too perfect. There was a certain ideal balance between brawn and intelligence about him that she should have found irresistibly alluring, but somehow did not. "I am incredibly fond of medicine, though," he continued, looking skyward as if he were searching for what she saw. "And the odd poem here and there to break up all the technical jargon."

He later seemed to realize that she wasn't paying full attention to him, so he decided to attempt to change the subject. "You're something of a celebrity, you know."

This successfully gripped her. "In what way?"

"I do not wish to speak out of turn, but I must confess that no one had really heard of you before last week," said Apollo. "What occurred with you in Asgard was something of a scandal, and now the others talk of how they are curious about you. Given your modest upbringing, I might have expected you to be a simple thing – though that is most assuredly not the case."

Persephone felt herself blush at the compliment; she was not used to people praising her intellect. It did, however, unnerve her to know that she had become a topic of conversation. "I think perhaps it may be best if I stay secluded in the library... I'm not quite comfortable with this newfound fame." _Or was it infamy__?_ she wondered mentally.

He stopped walking and turned to face her. She couldn't help but notice he was about Loki's height: tall, but not looming. He somewhat audaciously brought his hand to brush her cheek in a light caress and said, "You should not hide such beauty…"

She could not maintain eye contact. "You flatter me…" He must have mistaken her mortification for coyness, for he had a smugness about him after this point. Desperate to dispel the romantic atmosphere, she changed the subject once more and said, "Do you ever find a sort of restlessness in the idle nature of aristocracy?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, perplexed and mildly frustrated that she was deflecting his affections.

"When I lived in my village, I was ignorant but I was content. Here, I feel… I do not know. I apologize, I know not what I am saying…" This was far too intimate a conversation to be having with a stranger, she quickly surmised, though it had successfully broken the sultry heat between them.

He clasped her hand in his. "Please, continue."

She sighed deeply – she missed having someone with whom she could discuss such cerebral matters. "Do you feel as though you have no direction?"

He furrowed his brow. "I am a healer," he said. "I truly believe that that is my vocation, so if you mean to say you feel restless then I am not in the same situation – but I imagine you will likely find peace once you decide what you should like to spend your life doing. Many of our fellow nobles are content in their idleness, but it is clear that you and I are more alike than they in our esteem of more scholarly matters."

"Yes," she murmured. "But sometimes I fear that such freedom of will is a blessing and a curse. My lifespan hopefully will be quite long – with all these possibilities unfolding before me, I'm afraid I might never be satisfied in what I choose to do. I think sometimes the greatest disappointment can be found when one sets her sights on a monumental, unattainable goal."

"That is indeed a lofty dilemma," replied Apollo with a teasing smirk.

"I'm sorry, I do not wish to sound pretentious."

"Not at all – I think it is quite admirable that you choose to reflect so deeply on things that most people might never spend so much as a second thinking about."

She smiled, the first genuine one in a very long while. "Thank you for listening to my nonsense," she said, glancing down at her feet bashfully.

His cool hand came to gingerly tilt her chin up. "Of course," he said, voice husky.

He then brought his lips to the back of her hand, his eyes never leaving hers as he watched her through his lashes. When she felt his warm breath against her delicate flesh, she resisted the inclination to shiver. Again, she could think only of Loki and berated herself for it.

When they parted ways, she wandered back to her bedchambers with her head in the clouds. Her consciousness was so distant that she did not notice her mother watching her from the corridor, shrouded in the shadows.

"You have taken a liking to Apollo," Demeter remarked to her daughter's back. Though she could not see her, she could hear the knowing smile in her voice.

She jumped at the sudden sound. Without turning around, Persephone winced and huffed, "You needn't _stalk _me, mother. We have already established that I am in need of your unsolicited protection no longer."

"Can you blame a mother for being curious? Apollo is Olympus' most eligible bachelor."

The younger of the two spun around quickly on her heel, dress fluttering gracefully as she did. "Do not get your hopes up – nothing will come of it."

Demeter shot her a befuddled scowl. "Why would you write him off so carelessly?"

"He is very charming," she conceded, "But…" Her heart was bursting – she wanted more than anything to confess to someone the truth of her ghastly predicament, but she knew her mother would surely think her mad.

Because she loved Loki still. He had frightened her immeasurably, but, now that the shockwaves had faded, that poisonous part of her sought endlessly to justify him. _He was protecting himself_, it said, _He was trying to finally stop his perpetual cycle of self-sabotage._ If she hadn't returned to Olympus, his compact with Zeus would have been void. She knew this. And she knew also that emotion was something he feared even more violently than his own demise. The forcefulness of his rejection of her did not match what she had said to evoke it, and so she could not help but suspect that something deeper lay beneath his rage.

"But…?" probed Demeter.

She looked upon her mother, torn. "You will think me insane."

Her features softened considerably and she stepped nearer to her. "Darling, I could never."

"My heart belongs to another." She did not elaborate, because she could tell from the utter devastation that infiltrated her mother's eyes that she already understood.

"No."

"Yes."

"He – he is a _monster_!"

"Perhaps."

"No… I suspected this might be the case… He is a trickster – he has done this to you, he has enchanted you with some evil magic. We will put this right, we will release you from his sorcery…"

"He has not, mother."

"Then he has used some sort of psychological control," she continued, frantic. "He has found a way to twist your mind – I have heard tales of captives growing to love their oppressors – it is not common, but it is also not unheard of. Given the amount of time you were there, and how impressionable you are…"

"Enough!" she snarled. "I warned you you would think me insane."

"It is not your fault, my child – I do not blame you for this senselessness, I blame him!"

"Blame _me_!" she shouted. A maid passing by in the distance turned to look at them, startled, and Persephone shot her a fiery glare. She hurried away swiftly. "Blame me, because _I_ certainly blame _myself_. It is my fault," she resumed in a low hiss. "It is _my _heart that is corrupted."

"Only because he has corrupted it –"

A bitter, manic laugh climbed up her throat and cut her mother off. "He has done nothing but rebuke me. I am damaged, and if it is he who has damaged me then I am confident it was entirely by accident. I assure you he did _not_ desire this outcome."

"He must have," she insisted. "He did this to further spite your father for not immediately agreeing to his terms."

Persephone had never considered this, but still she did not think Loki had intended for her to fall for him. "I love him," she murmured weakly, tears obscuring her vision. "I do not wish to – indeed every night I pray that I may not –, but I _do_. I must be truly sick, to engage in something that so obviously harms me. Perhaps I long for my own destruction. Part of me surely died in Asgard, and I fear I must wish now that this part die as well."

"Time will pass. This feeling will wane…"

"I pray you are right, for I cannot endure this. I feel nothing but a cavity in my chest where my heart once was."

"You say he spurned you?"

"Yes, because how else would his agreement with father be completed? I could not have stayed in Asgard."

Demeter paused for many long moments, reading her daughter's features; she seemed to have a new face. "Would you return there, if given the opportunity?"

Persephone turned her head to the side, still struggling to blink away her tears. "I do not know. I did not leave on good terms – in my resentment, I believe I might have incited a revolution. And ostensibly not a very successful one, given that we have heard no news of it. There is no limit on what he might do to me, should I return. But I cannot help but feel... I don't know, perhaps it is just pitiful optimism, but I cannot help but feel that my sentiments are not entirely unrequited. I think I see him better than most of Asgard, I truly do, and I think he knows this."

Demeter chewed her lower lip, a mannerism that Persephone herself had inherited. "You have changed much since your… abduction," she started. "Your 'enlightenment,' as you say, has caused you much pain, and I'm afraid it will continue to do so."

"I must concur. I am wasted here," she spat. "I am wasted in this world of 'clever' gods and goddesses who spend all their time theorizing while the others go off to wage needless wars. Our own king – my _father_ – has so little regard for my perceived talents that he was perfectly content to leave me forever stranded on an alien planet. I am lost; I am unrecognizable even to myself. The Olympian Persephone was expunged from the universe that day she was taken to Jotunheim, and this new one is an Asgardian distortion. I feel at home in neither realm." It was perhaps for the best that Persephone did not realize how like Loki she sounded in her jaded speech. She would not have been able to bear to think that her newfound sense of individuality was skewed through the lens of Loki's own deranged morality.

These words took a minute to settle in, before Demeter slowly said, "Perhaps you ought to leave here, then."

Persephone said no more, for she was rendered speechless.

* * *

**Author's Note: So, there were some subtle nods to classical Greek mythology in this one (did anyone catch the pomegranate in chapter 3? I've been trying to drop little references here and there). In mythology Persephone can't control the weather _per se _(see what I did there? lololol), but she does have an effect on the seasons. And again the Stockholm syndrome thing is coming up - in the mythology it's not exactly clear what happens between Persephone and Hades, but in some versions of the story she grows to love him (and I've even read interpretations where she goes with him willingly to escape her mother). And Demeter calls Asgard a 'hell,' which is a reference both to Hades/the underworld and the Norse underworld, Hel.**

**Also, I didn't really know what to do with the whole incest thing that was rampant amongst the Greek gods, so I kind of just didn't address it directly. 'Practically incestuous' was as squicky as I was gonna get lol.**

**Don't worry if the ending seems kind of abrupt/unexpected, it will be explained! What do you think of Persephone? Please review! Reviews are the bestttt :)**


	12. Reconciliation

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to girlsix and 'a review' for reviewing, omg it means so much that you guys took the time to let me know what you think! I hope everyone likes this chapter! :)**

* * *

**CHAPTER XII**

**Reconciliation**

. . .

"What?" This query passed Persephone's lips at such a low volume that Demeter had to strain her ears to hear it.

"I have received correspondence from Thor," she prefaced. "Or, rather, your father has and he has relayed it to me."

"Saying what?" she demanded.

"The prince's friends are scheduled to be executed next week for treason. Evidently he learned of your involvement in the matter and thought perhaps you might aid him in persuading his brother not to kill them."

"Why would he think that?"

Demeter shrugged, shirking any pretense of inside knowledge. "I have not seen the letter. I know only that he requested your presence because he thought for some reason you might be useful to his cause. There must certainly be desperation in his plight, for why else would he turn to you?"

"Yes," she murmured, "And why would he turn to me unless he thought there was even the slightest possibility that Loki might heed my word… What did father say to you about it?"

"He wanted me to tell you earlier…"

"When did he receive this message?" she interrupted.

The elder woman paused, and Persephone felt instantly enraged.

"It was long ago, wasn't it?" she growled.

"A few days – I didn't tell you because I did not want to tempt you!"

Persephone laughed acrimoniously and began pacing. "So their time is nearly spent, then?"

"Not _nearly_ – there are still a couple of days before the date is set."

"I must leave soon, then – tomorrow."

"You must first inform Thor of your intention to go. He has assured your father that you will be under his care and that no harm will befall you. Zeus does hold him in quite high esteem, and so I think he must be trustworthy."

"Thor is everything Loki is not."

"That is what they say, and that is the sole reason why I am allowing you to go."

"Allowing me? _Allowing me?_" she echoed, nearing hysterics. "Was it not you who said just hours ago that I am a woman grown? You do not allow me anything – my decisions are mine and mine alone. I did not leave captivity to relinquish my freedom here as well."

Demeter suddenly looked a decade older and deeply hurt. She teetered a bit where she stood, as if her aged legs were rebelling against her. Tears glistened in her light eyes.

Persephone did not yield. "You are a foolish old woman who clings to the past because the present has nothing to offer. I have degenerated into something that you would not be proud to call your daughter."

"No," she refuted. "I am proud. You have become strong, like your father, though you may not realize it. I… I was never strong, merely persistent…"

Upon seeing the woman on the brink of collapse, she leant her her arm and softened her tone. "Perhaps I too am persistent," she said more mildly.

"I can only hope," she replied. "I suspect you are, which is why I do not think success is out of reach. Persistence is sometimes more valuable than strength in matters of the heart. Strength begets pride, and pride begets heartbreak… I find that Asgardian king beyond abhorrent, but you clearly see some opportunity for redemption in him, as does his brother."

"I fear I am on the brink of self-immolation even if I do not try," she told her plainly.

"So then you must go."

. . .

Persephone returned to Asgard, head hung low like a prodigal daughter and wrapped in a purple shawl. It was unlikely, she thought, that anyone would recognize her, but still she did not wish to take the chance.

Thor was there to meet her at the gates, looking every bit the same apart from a few new wrinkles around his eyes, likely caused by worry.

"Thank you for coming, My Lady. Asgard has fallen in to dire straights since your departure," he greeted. They immediately began walking at a brisk pace into the palace, their surroundings flying by around her in a sparkly blur of color.

"I've been informed," she replied, averting eye contact so that she would not have to answer for her duplicity. She was ashamed.

Thor was kind enough to ignore what was apparent between them. "Sif and the Warriors Three have been in the dungeons since the very day you left," he informed her.

"When are they set to be executed?"

"Tomorrow," he answered gravely. "You must speak with my brother tonight – I hope perhaps that if you explain to him precisely what happened, he might see reason. He valued his conversations with you, I think, and I pray that he might hear your advice because he certainly will not hear mine. He still thinks I wish to steal the throne from him."

"You think he valued his conversations with me?" she asked quickly and with profound astonishment.

"Yes… I have not had the luxury of seeing it for myself, but I have been told that you have become quite a different woman since falling under his charge. I truly think – through his own vanity – that he has either intentionally or unintentionally fashioned you into someone who he respects, if not cares for…"

He had walked her all the way to the door to Loki's cursed chambers, and there they lingered, whispering. "I would not burden you with this task unless I have already tried all that is within my power that would not result in civil war. You are my friends' last hope. I promise you that I will not let him injure you in any way – you have diplomatic immunity, but I will protect you should it ever come to it. You need only yell for help and I will find you at once."

She swallowed heavily in anticipation. "Alright," she agreed. She had faith in Thor – he was incredibly noble, especially when contrasted so directly with his brother.

Her trembling hand hovered briefly over the brass doorknob in paralyzing fear; the last time she had entered this room, unspeakable evils had occurred. "Wish me luck," she murmured almost inaudibly, before twisting the knob and plunging into the point of no return.

The wood made a noise as the door opened, and Loki whirled around to face her before she was even halfway through the threshold. He looked to be completely on edge. His hands were raised, as if he intended to use some sort of sorcery to assault her. His expression shifted from a look of furious worry into one of furious surprise.

"_You_," he hissed, voice caustic as acid. "What sort of vile trickery is this?"

"You are the trickster, not I," said Persephone fluidly. She conducted herself – to the best of her ability – with a forced air of composure. In reality, her heart leapt with both fear and affection the moment she laid eyes on his well-sculpted visage.

The door fell closed behind her with a crisp click, sealing them off from the outside world. Thor did not know that Loki had enchanted his chambers so that no sound would escape; should she scream, her pleas would fall upon deaf ears.

"I warned you never to return," snarled Loki menacingly, walking towards her with purpose.

Her feet held firm against the inclination to back down, even as she felt his hot breath on her forehead. "It is I who started the uprising, not Sif and her comrades. I have come to beg you to spare them their lives."

He threw his head back and let out a bark of laughter, which was somehow one of the most wicked and disquieting sounds that had ever reached her ears. "Oh, this _is_ rich… Has my brother summoned you? He must be truly desperate – all this for a woman he claims so ardently to love as only a sister? I wonder how his beloved Jane Foster would feel about this…"

"It is I who started the uprising," she repeated, unfazed. "It is… It is I who must be… It is I who must be punished."

Her blatant hesitation did not slip past his notice. "What's the matter?" he taunted. "Has my brazen little princess so quickly lost her resolve?"

This nickname he had bestowed upon her – '_little princess' – _made her skin crawl. He uttered it as a curse.

She did not meet his gaze, instead turning her attention to the rug beneath which she had been incarcerated less than a month past. "I am to blame," she muttered quietly.

"I'm sorry? What was that?" demanded Loki.

Her eyes bore into his with renewed intensity. "I am to blame."

He stepped back from her, seemingly agitated by this newfound self-assurance. "Do not flatter yourself," he spat. "It is ludicrous to think that _you_ – someone so insignificant, so feeble-minded – could possibly pose any threat to my regime. No, you merely provided Sif with a justification to enact the treason she has been itching to commit from the moment I was crowned. You were but an _excuse_."

"Surely you who has taught me everything I know must understand that the 'excuses' are the most dangerous components of any plan for destruction."

He sniggered humorlessly once more at the notion that she could have wrought destruction upon him.

"You think yourself clever?" he mocked. "You are not. You are nothing. You are a canvas upon which others may project their own values – any sense of self you have allowed yourself to feel is but an illusion of the most pathetic breed! You have begun fraternizing with Thor, it seems – have you come to hold stake in the fate of the people of Asgard? Have you come identify with the ignoble tribulations of the groveling Midgardians? Because evidently you share his grievous belief that I may yet be redeemed!"

Tears gathered in her eyes but she did not let them fall; his words stung greatly, true enough, but she knew that they were uttered in a twisted sort of self-defense.

"No," he continued, a bit calmer. He seemed almost to be speaking to himself as he paced. Loki moved around quite a lot as he spoke, she noticed, as if the corporeal activity somehow helped his mind to function.

"Thor has brought you here for naught – he knows I cannot be redeemed. He wishes only that I release his friends so that he may join them in their battle against me. It is he, after all, who shall be king when I fall. Perhaps even _you_ are working in concert with him – I would not put it past you, given how fickle your loyalties seem to be. Look how readily you forsake your own homeland in favor of the one in which you were prisoner. Has the mighty Thor charmed you with his oafish magnetism? I would not blame you, you are but a woman – and oh how they _swoon_ before him."

"Thor has no wish to displace you," she insisted, ignoring this pitiable insecurity and willing him to understand. "He wishes only to see his childhood friends escape the blade."

"Then he wishes in futility. Sif and the Warriors Three must be executed, if for no other reason than to prove a point – it is merciful enough that I do not slaughter Asgard's army in droves, as I have perfectly just grounds to do."

"Think what '_just grounds_' you father had to execute you, and still he did not," she pointed out heatedly.

Loki turned to glare venomously at her, teeth bared and fists clenched tightly enough to draw blood. "All the more reason to slice their heads off with a blunt axe."

"Odin was a beloved king. You might benefit from putting aside your loathing for him and follow some of his examples."

"I will never be beloved – there is no point in trying."

"I disagree! You have the ability to be quite charismatic when you want to be – I think you might be able to win them over yet."

"Then you are an even larger idiot than I thought."

At this, she huffed in frustration – the first palpable display of emotion she had thus far shown. "I am trying to help you, Loki! You think everyone is conspiring against you, but in reality Thor and I are trying only to save you from yourself!"

"I did not ask for you '_help_'!" he shouted, nostrils flaring. "Nor do I want it! When will you get that through your thick skull? Honestly, I think you're even duller than my brother! You are worthless – you are unworthy of the time I have spent on you! I neither value nor desire your trivial insight!"

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and ratchet down his fury. When he continued, his voice was deathly calm.

"It is my own fault, that you have begun to act with such recklessness," he said. "I have squandered my attention on you and given you the false impression that your opinion is somehow meaningful. You were but a way to pass the time, a tawdry plaything meant to serve as a passive audience for my most frivolous musings. You think because you have read a measly collection of books that you are an expert on ruling? You are wholly unqualified to offer me any sort of advice, and in fact it angers me that you are foolhardy enough to even presume to!"

"I think you'll find your cruel words do not cut me as they once did," she told him in a low hiss. "You cannot deflect a discussion of your own shortcomings by insulting me."

He rushed to her at once and momentarily looked as if he might strike her; however he refrained, opting instead to lean his face in inches from hers. She could see every fleck of color in his irises and every minuscule pore in his flawless complexion.

"You think you see through me so easily," he ridiculed. "You do not."

"Loki," she pleaded, fingers floating in the air just above his wrists. "Everything I have learned about human nature I have learned from you – I _know_ you know that ruling through fear does not prevent a revolution, but merely staves it off for a time."

"When that time comes, then, perhaps it will mean the permanent ruin of this awful realm."

He made a move to walk away from her again, but she caught his wrist before he could. He froze in his tracks, slowly turning his sights to her small hand on the leather of his sleeve. His expression morphed from a look of irritation to one of surprise. When he finally seemed to settle on a reaction, he considered her with an odd mixture of bewilderment and uncertainty, as if he did not understand the nature of this unexpected physical contact.

"It does not have to be this way," she said sincerely, before he could speak. "Eventually you will have to prove yourself no longer – eventually you will be forgiven. You need only bide your time until then. And you can – I _know_ you can. You are cunning enough. The worst is already over."

He tore his gaze away from her hand to look her squarely in the eyes. His frown fell away and his features relaxed into a blank expression. "Why?" he murmured almost imperceptibly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Why?" he repeated, only a decibel louder. "Why do you wish so desperately to help me?"

She gave him a fierce look from beneath her thick eyelashes as her heart beat perilously fast against her ribcage. "You _know_ why," she said in an equally hushed tone.

He flitted his eyes to the point of contact once more and tugged his arm from her grasp; her hand slipped away as if it had never been there to begin with.

"Yours is the most pitiful sentimentality I have ever known," he sneered without meeting her passionate stare.

"Not sentimentality," she rebuked fervidly. "Love."

As soon as the word had left her tongue she wished she could stuff it back down her throat. She resisted the urge to cover her traitorous mouth with her hands. The word hung in the air, baiting and untouched.

His emerald eyes pierced hers, indecipherable emotions swirling in them. He seemed to be reading her face, searching for signs of betrayal.

He didn't want her love – he didn't know what to do with it. Love was something repulsive, something that always wronged him in the end. It had done nothing but hurt him; it was meant to be a bolstering force, but it only cut him down. The more people he loved, he told himself most adamantly, the weaker he became. In the past, this wretched sentiment had clouded the one thing he did possess, the one thing that made him better than everyone else: his intelligence and his logic. And he would not allow himself to be reduced to a bumbling child seeking affection ever again.

She knew he felt this way; her terrible secret was already exposed, so she figured she might as well cocoon herself in a veil of confidence in her declaration. She ghosted her fingertips over his cheekbone, barely touching him, and matched the concentration in his gaze.

"I have said before that you must surely be an idiot, but I fear I must reiterate this estimation if you harbor any legitimate feelings for me," he told her plaintively after some prolonged moments. There was a rare, transitory flash of something akin to remorse in his eyes.

"Yes, I would be an idiot to love you," she agreed firmly. "And yet here I stand." Her thumb lightly traced the hollow of his cheek. She marveled at how anyone's face could be so without flaw.

"Even you, a doomed and hopeless idiot, must know that I will be your demise."

"Yes," she agreed again without budging.

"_Why_?" he asked again, voice cracking with a peculiar sort of desperation. He finally angled his face into her touch, blinking in unsynchronized rapidity.

She smiled sadly, tears cascading down her cheeks as her eyes squinted. "If I knew, perhaps I might be able to rectify my idiocy."

He smiled back in equivalent sadness, the corners of his mouth faltering as they maintained the effort. Wearily he sat down on the nearby edge of his bed, her hand never leaving his cheek as she remained standing before him. When he still did not speak, she sank to her knees as though she were worshipping him and brought her other hand up to cradle his chin.

"In earnest, though," she began tenderly, "I admire your intellect. You may often use it to wreak great devastation, but it is impressive nonetheless. I think that if you may forget the pain of your past, you could do equally great good with your brilliance. You need only _try_."

He smiled again with that same air of unhappiness. "It is not just my pretty face?" he drawled in jest. "The other children used to tease me so."

Her own smile broadened. "You appearance is no mark against you, I will admit."

"I knew it," he joked.

With the reluctance of a mere boy, he gradually mirrored her actions by putting his right hand on the side of her face. His thumb caressed the impossibly smooth skin beneath her lower eyelashes, brushing away the dampness of her tears. She released him and instead held his hand in place with her own, urging him on. His demeanor was just as gentle with her now as it had been that fateful day in the library.

His gaze darted to her lips, as though wordlessly asking for a permission he knew he did not need; she squeezed his hand and felt the pulse in his wrist jump ever so slightly. He drew closer. Again she felt the warmth of his breath on her face, and again she felt her blood turn to molten lava – this time for an entirely different reason.

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry to end it there! What do you think of Loki? In character? How about Persephone? Also when Loki references the destruction of Asgard, that's hinting at Ragnarok, which is like the Asgardian apocalypse that is, in mythology, started by Loki. Please review ;) **


	13. Adaption

**Author's Note: Thank you so so much to Kite, DKLL, Anayellow, SirOlives, pestiilence, and bekahleck for reviewing! **

**I'm sorry if this story is seeming a little abrupt - I'm trying to keep it short, and shorter stories are something I definitely need practice with (my only complete multi-chapter story is 42 chapters lol, and I'm trying to keep this one muuuuuch shorter). I love character development and gradual changes and slow-burn romance and all that jazz, so I'm struggling a bit do that with my self-imposed length restrictions. This is very much practice for me as a writer as much as it is my attempt to convey a compelling story, so constructive criticism is definitely appreciated/taken into account.**

* * *

**CHAPTER XIII**

**Adaption**

. . .

The sweltering heat of anticipation and her fickle king's proximity was soon replaced with another sensation altogether. She felt an ecstatic, magnetic pull when his lips met hers. He kept the kiss chaste and soft, conscious of her inexperience, but applied a calculated yet perfect variation of pressure – just enough to initiate her into the adult world, but not so much that she wasn't left yearning for more. By the end of it, his touch was so light and her eyes so securely closed that she feared she might have dreamt the whole encounter.

When they broke apart, Persephone wore a vacant, glassy-eyed expression; Loki actually had the nerve to chuckle. She felt a flare of resistance spark in her chest and stood abruptly, his hands falling away as she now towered above him. He, too, stood.

"Don't be cross, darling," he purred. He brushed her hair over her shoulder and away from her alabaster neck, gingerly stroking the flesh beneath her earlobe. "I only laugh because I find it endearing." He was either lying well (as he often did) or telling the truth – either way, he sounded genuine enough, and so her pout disappeared.

She instead clenched her jaw in hardened determination and said, "If you have even the vaguest semblance of affection for me, Loki, please attempt to repair this disaster. I could not bear to see you plummet further into the abyss of villainy, especially not when triumph is so close within your reach."

His pupils darted back and forth erratically as he regarded her. After several beats of silence, he dropped his arm and she felt an icy void where his skin had once touched hers.

He sighed heavily, running a hand over his slick hair and then bringing it to massage his eyes. "I do not wish to kill them, not really," he confessed.

He paused for a moment, studying the floor and letting the weight of this revelation sink in, before continuing, "But truly I see no other alternative – would you have me allow them to go free?" His voice was gritty – raw. She saw a struggle in him that elucidated the vestiges of a conscience.

"You needn't free them," she answered quietly. "Keep them prisoner, if you like – they are not innocent. Just do not kill them. Show them the same lenience your father showed you." She almost felt guilty that she could so easily resign them to this fate, but she could not work miracles.

His features took on a look of pain, as if an insult threatened to tear from his mouth but he was trying actively to contain it. His soul would never see salvation unless he found a way to reconcile his feelings for Odin with his current responsibilities – this he knew. A great number of his defects stemmed from his hatred for his adoptive father. Perhaps it was wrong of him to blame him so completely – perhaps it was juvenile. But he would not concede that his father had done nothing wrong, as everyone so passionately seemed to. _No perfect king_ could raise both his sons to believe they were destined for the throne while simultaneously promising it to only one of them.

"The 'lenience' my father showed was not borne out of love for me," he admitted cautiously, "but out of love for my mother – he knew my death would break her heart, and so he spared my life. If not for this, I would be dead."

Persephone's expression was empty as she processed this information. Ultimately she replied, "Then spare your friends not out of your love for them, but out of your love for Thor – you may protest, but I know you love your brother. I must urge you to remember, though: even if you suspect your father's motives for granting you mercy were impure, he fell into the Odinsleep upon hearing news of your death. Such potent heartbreak is not characteristic of a man who cares nothing for his son."

He stilled for many moments, deep in contemplation.

"What do you see that I do not, that you think triumph is within my reach?" he asked eventually.

"I see good in you – your brother sees good in you – your father and mother saw good in you – do you notice the pattern? Those closest to you – those you spite most viciously – are the ones who think you most redeemable. It is fascinating and seems unfeasible but it is nevertheless fact. You need only bare this part of yourself to you subjects. It is possible to be simultaneously formidable and merciful, and this dichotomy will make you one of the greatest kings Asgard has ever seen."

"They do not call me the God of Lies without reason," he countered dryly.

"You are capable of honesty…"

"Capable, yes – fond of it? Quite the contrary."

"Use your discretion – I believe it will be possible for you to rule without changing _every_ aspect of your character. Truly, I think the people want only a heartfelt apology for what came to pass with your father and brother. It behooves me to say it, but you are skillful enough at deception that even if you are not sincere in your atonement you can disguise it as such."

"You abandon your morals in favor of me," he noted with a haphazard air of perplexity.

"As you have said many times, I am an idiot," she murmured, lowering her gaze to the floor.

He gently tilted her chin up so she would meet his eyes. "You are not an idiot," he said in a very low tone. His voice held a mingled combination of penitence and irritation, irritation with himself.

It was quite possible that he was playing her for a fool, but her heart nevertheless fluttered in her chest like a startled dove.

"I am sorry I have done this to you," he whispered. "I fear my brother was right to say that I have twisted your mind."

"Whatever you have done," she sighed, "it is just that: done. There is no use in attempting to cure something that has already proliferated within me. I am what I am, now; whether you made me this way or not has become irrelevant."

On a whim, he took her hand in his and brushed his lips over the back of it with a sort of delicate airiness. He planted a firmer kiss on her knuckles and said, "Curiously enough, I find it difficult to resist indulging your wishes." The words came out a bit garbled due to the fact that his mouth was still pressed against her skin, and Persephone, conversely, now found it difficult to decode what his real feelings for her were.

He was still trapped between her and the edge of his bed; they had hardly moved since their initial interaction. He released her and slid out from between them, leaving the princess with the open sight of his faintly mussed sheets. There was an indent on the plush mattress where he had been sitting.

She turned around to watch him walk across the room, to his window. Morning drew on the horizon, a line of orange peering out of the blue.

"I will let them live," he announced, not facing her.

Persephone felt a long-lost feeling of delight creep into her body. It was so poignant that she almost forbade herself to trust it.

"Know that this is your doing," he went on, "And yours alone. Allow yourself this pride – it is not often that I am swayed by another's testimony. They will owe you their lives." He offered her this, and, if things went awry because of it, culpability for whatever cruel fate might befall him.

"I want nothing of pride," she murmured, knowing also that it was she who had thrust Sif and the Warriors Three into this predicament in the first place. She had nothing to be proud of; Sif had been a good friend to her, and she had put her life in peril in order to enact her own vicious crusade for retribution. Like Loki, she was beginning to leave chaos in her wake.

He turned around upon hearing her response. "I know you don't," he spoke, jarring her from her thoughts. "But you deserve it."

"I want only for this turmoil to be resolved," she started, "And for you to acclimate properly to this new role. You're too clever to keep making the same mistakes time and time again."

He reared his head back with a grin, mildly stunned by her sharp words. "First you shower me with flattery and now you reprimand me as you might a naughty schoolboy? You are certainly quite the changeable creature, my little princess."

Persephone frowned, but did not reply.

"Come," he said in a more serious tone. "We must inform the executioner that there will be no blood spilt on this day."

. . .

Aside from the executioner – a squat, stodgy man who seemed improbably able to swing an axe –, Thor was the first person to learn that his friends would remain alive. Imprisoned, but alive.

When his brother had informed him of the news, he had looked upon Persephone with such happiness and gratitude that Loki had been fairly sure he was going to kiss her. Thankfully for everyone, he did not.

When all was squared away, Persephone was exhausted; they had been awake the entire night, after all, and so she excused herself before Loki addressed his kingdom, retiring to the chambers she had occupied during her last visit. She would have liked to see him in action, but she could hardly keep her eyes open and she feared that her presence at the assembly might be suspicious.

So, she who had produced this outcome was absent from Loki's audience. He assured himself most convincingly that he did not mind and ignored the bizarre twisting in his chest when he thought of her.

His oppressive helmet firmly perched on his head, he stood before his people.

"Asgard," he began. "By now you all know well that I have recently been confronted with the most tragic of betrayals – our very own Sif, Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg, my childhood friends and compatriots, led an insurrection against me not but a few days ago."

There was an uneasy shifting of bodies, and he thought he might have even perceived an errant sob amongst the rustle of clothing.

"Had I not preemptively contacted our allies in Olympus, asking for troops to replenish those lost during the war with the Dark Elves," he went on, "I know not what the outcome of this treason might have been."

He stopped again, looking out to gauge the reaction of the crowd; he was met with a sea of solemn faces. "Naturally," he continued, "I condemned them to death, as is the sentence dictated by Asgardian law..." He allowed several long moments of silence to stretch on, uninterrupted.

"_However_… Last night, as I considered this most heinous decision I have been burdened with, I could not help but find in my memory a trove of pleasant recollections of my wayward friends. I recalled all the battles, all the feasts – and yes, even the tricks."

He smiled charismatically, adopting a more conversational tone. "I recalled how Sif yowled for days on end when I chopped off her golden locks when we no more than school-aged children. I recalled how Fandral saved my life in battle on numerous occasions, when I was too busy chasing after my brother to notice an adversary creeping up behind me."

"I thought of these things, and my heart was filled with a pain of the most crippling sort. Though these days of happiness and camaraderie have long passed, the prisoners locked inside the dungeons are still the very same friends I have known for nearly my entire life. How could I kill them, I wondered. How could I kill them, when not long ago I was imprisoned for such similar crimes?"

He cleared his throat, eyes fierce and misty. "I could not bear to act with such hypocrisy… I have done unspeakable things. I was brought before my father, fully aware that the only appropriate punishment for my treason would be death. But just as our blessed Odin found it in his heart to have mercy on me, so too have I decided to have mercy on my friends in the hope that they, like me, will repent – in the hope that perhaps, one day, if and when the opportunity presents itself, they might prove their loyalty to Asgard just as I have. And, just as you have forgiven me, I shall forgive them."

"And so," he finished, "it is with a wounded heart that I have decided to spare them their lives. They will remain imprisoned until such a time as I see it fit to pardon them, but there will be no executions on this day."

The crowd's solemnity had long since given way to an astonished sort of exultation. There were several gasps from amongst the soldiers' ranks. When the audience was certain that Loki had concluded his speech, they erupted into a vociferous applause.

Their king's eyes widened in shock and he smiled weakly at the blur of faces; he had not anticipated such an enthusiastic response. He had merely woven together a string of touching lies – lies he had adapted from Persephone and his brother – and delivered them in what was apparently a convincing manner. The outcome was extraordinary. He was met with a degree of adoration he had never known, and he felt so affected that he almost wanted to believe his own fabrications.

He also realized in a bit of a panic that perhaps Persephone had been entirely correct in her estimation of the Asgardian people – perhaps and apology had been all that stood in the way of his endorsement.

. . .

"You love her," said Thor, coming to sit beside his pensive brother on a stone bench amidst the blooming foliage.

His statement was a direct accusation and left no room for dispute.

Alone now in the courtyard, Loki knew not how to respond. His lean body was hunched over in fatigue and he covered his eyes warily with his hands, fearful that his brother might interpret the emotions that lay behind them.

"You do not need to answer," he continued. "I can see it plainly. It is the only reason you spared our friends."

Loki straightened and looked at his brother, offended. "I spared _your_ friends because she convinced me it would be in my best interest to do so," he snapped. He was too tired to muster the rage he desired, and so his jibe fell flat.

"She was able to convince you because you love her," he concluded, eyebrows waggling suggestively.

"She was able to convince me because I – begrudgingly – _respect_ her," he replied, voice thick with petulance and denial.

"They are one in the same."

Loki did not respond, but simply examined the masonry beneath his boots.

"You always were vain, brother. It should not surprise me that the woman you come to love is a reflection of yourself."

Protest was written across his every feature. "How could you possibly say that? In what universe would I plead for the lives of a people I care nothing about, with nothing to gain for myself?"

"She is a more virtuous reflection of you, perhaps. But her motives were selfish – she did not argue on their behalf out of the goodness of her heart, but, as you said, because she thought the decision would be in your best interest."

"Is that selfishness?"

"She acted to save the man she loves, to save herself from the pain of his demise."

Loki fell silent.

"Furthermore," Thor elaborated, "she has even started to resemble you in her appearance."

He could not argue this point, and indeed he found her more beautiful now than he had the day he met her.

"You ought to marry her."

The suggestion pierced the air and assaulted Loki's ears like a sudden, crashing meteor; he shot up in his seat as if he had been electrocuted by one of Thor's famous thunderbolts. The sequence of words was so unexpected that he was certain he must have misheard. And yet – no. The blond prince had said the sentence just as Loki's mind had registered it.

"_What_?"

* * *

**Author's Note: Please review, my loves! Loki is a tricky bastard to get right, but I'm trying my hardest.**


	14. Celebration

**Author's Note: Thank you so so much to 'Guest' and NoVacancyMind for reviewing!**

**Warning: This chapter is a hard T rating.**

* * *

**CHAPTER XIV**

**Celebration**

. . .

"She cannot stay in Asgard forever," replied Thor with striking nonchalance. "She will have to return home to Olympus eventually, just as you will eventually be required to choose a queen. Why not kill two birds with the same stone?"

For the first time in many years, Loki's silver-tongue melted away. His mouth moved on its own accord, but he could not formulate any words; he looked as a fish gasping for breath.

"I do not expect Asgard to take kindly to _two_ foreign-born monarchs on the throne," he managed lamely after what was frankly a humiliating duration of time. "When I do decide to marry, it will be an Asgardian."

"But you love her, do you not?" The blond prince looked frightfully bewildered.

The muscle in Loki's jaw tensed. "I do not deny it. But love is the most fleeting of sentiments."

"On the contrary, brother, I believe it to be the most resilient." He placed a heavy hand on his companion's shoulder, as if they were proof of this assertion. "You are Asgardian," he told him. "The circumstances of your birth matter nothing – you were raised in Asgard, you were raised by our father. You are no foreign-born king."

He looked keenly at the other, his chest constricting as though a blade had been removed from his heart and it was now gushing blood.

In a moderated tone, he said, "Still, it would be unheard of to espouse myself to a woman from an alien nation – you perhaps know better than I."

Thor's features darkened and his expression of warmth dissolved when his hand fell away from Loki's shoulder. "It is true that father forbade me from marrying Jane. But Midgard and Olympus are very different realms."

He contemplated this with a grim frown.

"It would save you the trouble of scouring Asgard in search of suitable candidates," said Thor. "And it would repair the alliance that you so ironically saw fit to jeopardize."

The dark-haired king smiled at this. It was indeed ridiculous that he would consider marrying the woman he had abducted not yet a full month ago.

"Perhaps…" he murmured cryptically.

"She loves you unconditionally," Thor continued to persuade. "You know as well as I that she must."

Loki did not debate it. He was far too wicked to ever be loved conditionally.

"I know those pretty words you spoke today were neither truthful nor your own, but I am appreciative for them nonetheless. After even that brief meeting with Persephone, you have begun to comport yourself differently, as you once did before all this bitterness came to pass between us. I know not if this is her doing, but, if it is, I must approve of her wholeheartedly."

. . .

Loki could not deny that he saw strategy in what Thor had suggested; however, he did not know if he merely read strategy into the notion because he willed it to be there, or if it was genuinely present.

He feared his brain had grown addled with the many stresses he'd been forced to endure in the past days. Such a momentous decision warranted utter clarity in its consideration.

There was, though, a spontaneous feast planned for that very same evening, thrown by Thor in Loki's honor. It was the first time since Odin's 'death' that he had seen his brother in such high spirits. Loki tried not to let himself feel joy or pride at the knowledge that he had ushered in this change, but failed. It was incongruous that he could ever herald anything but misery.

He was growing soft, he thought with a disgusted scowl; _she_ was making him soft.

_Only in one sense_, teased a more lecherous part of his body. The notion seemed to come out of nowhere.

_You're delirious. You need to rest_.

And it was true: he did need to rest. His near-invincible body had grown worn and weary.

But alas, he could not neglect to attend his own feast.

Persephone was wearing green when he spotted her, an ornate emerald dress made from the finest silk and paired with a thick gold necklace.

She was wearing his colors; she was sitting across from Thor. She was sitting beside where he would be seated.

Beside the king.

It was certainly a bold statement, dressing this woman in the king's colors and placing her at his right hand, as if she were already queen.

This was his brother's doing, no doubt. He was dressing her up and presenting her to him like a gift – like a beautiful gift, with the shiniest chestnut waves he had ever seen secured in a long, elaborate plait and fastened with a ribbon, no less. Her hair was hardly ever pulled away from her face, and he could see now an expanse of snowy skin stretching to the low neckline of her bodice. Her dark brows and plump red lips painted a drastic contrast against the canvas of white and she looked almost like a doll.

No one would have known she was Olympian just from looking at her.

All stood as he approached the table. When he sat, they sat, and then the food was served and the room broke out into a chorus of noises – dishes clattering, people laughing, and mouths chewing.

Two rosy circles emerged on Persephone's porcelain cheeks when he made eye contact with her, his gaze straying wildly thereafter. He was too exhausted to maintain a pretense of coyness; he wanted her, and he didn't care if she knew it.

"I hear your address went very well," she ventured, eyes shining with furtive mirth.

"Yes," he replied detachedly. He brought his goblet to his mouth and took a long draught of wine, the red staining his lips before his tongue darted out to clean them. He noticed Persephone watching the action.

"Join me in the courtyard after supper," he leaned over to whisper in her ear, his warm, wine-riddled breath tickling her skin.

Doe-eyed, she looked around to see if anyone witnessed this interaction before nodding stiffly in embarrassment. Thor was certainly amused by the exchange, as was evidenced in his knowing, self-satisfied smirk.

Loki knew that he was acting recklessly but, the more wine he imbibed, the less he grew to care. His brother had placed him at the center of this difficult predicament, and there was no use in trying to escape it – he might as well enjoy it. He was aware that people had begun to talk the very moment they observed her seated beside him – how could they not? He and this woman looked like bookends, clad in the same colors and and born with the same coloring.

They made an elegant pair.

He was simply playing along with everyone's expectations.

"That dress suits you," he told her when he pulled away.

She blushed again. "Thor requested I wear it – usually I'm partial to violet, but I thought it best to heed his advice," she said gravely, confirming his earlier speculations.

It was understood between them that she was clever enough to grasp the implications of this.

Thor overheard her deflection of the compliment and interjected, "Yes, the gift was the least I could offer as a token of my utmost gratitude. I think she looks ravishing, don't you, brother?" He nudged Loki hard with his elbow, momentarily knocking the wind out of him with the sudden contact.

"I've just finished telling her so, yes," he mused, glaring pointedly at the other man.

Thor seemed to comprehend that his interference was not wanted; even Persephone didn't enjoy the Asgardian prince meddling in their affairs.

At the end of the meal, Loki was confronted by a horde of his subjects. They processed in front of him one by one and he was forced to greet them all. While initially it was quite flattering to hear such professions of adoration (and indeed the rarity of the sentiment was not lost on him), the experience quickly became obsequious and tiresome. By the time he had accepted the last old man's admiration, he was even more fatigued than he had been to begin with, which was to say that he could barely muster the energy to remain standing.

The one thing that discouraged him from setting off to sleep immediately was the prospect of seeing Persephone.

. . .

They met in the courtyard, as he had instructed. The area was deserted and the starlight cast a bluish hue over all that lay within this rectangular plot of land. It never truly grew dark in Asgard.

He found Persephone staring at the celestial map above. She was sitting in the grass, the green of her garments bleeding into the green beneath her. Her ears pricked up at the sound of a faint crunching, and she turned her head gracefully to see Loki growing nearer.

"My Lady," he greeted. "I was detained." He knelt fluidly to the ground beside her, leaving a minute amount of space between their shoulders; he could feel her body heat radiate from her, though they were not touching.

"It is quite all right," she replied quietly. She was examining her hands, not out of coquettishness, but nervousness.

He took her hand in his and her blue eyes shot up to look at him, sparkling like polished jewels in the faint light.

"When do you return to Olympus?" Loki asked gently.

She sighed despairingly and turned her attention skyward, as if searching for her home planet. "I do not know," she answered. "Soon, I imagine. I expect my father will want me home now that my business has been concluded."

She peered at him with uncertainty, cringing internally at the recollection of what had happened the last time she'd expressed her dissatisfaction with leaving.

He did not speak, but instead brushed a fallen tendril of hair behind her ear. He studied her with a seriousness that made her pulse quicken and hid his eyes from her as he looked down at her mouth.

His lips touched hers and her eyes fluttered closed; he pulled away with haste.

She came to stare at him in confusion.

"Do you love me? Truly?" rang an unbidden question.

Her brows knitted together, she replied, "Of course. You know I do."

It was his turn to sigh despairingly. "I fear for you," he said.

"I fear for myself."

"Rightfully."

Before he could say any more, she wrenched him towards her by the lapels of his coat. Her mouth smashed into his and he came instantly alive. His fingers knotted into her hair, unraveling her braid into a pitiful mess. Her own hands braced herself against him and were met with a disappointing plane of layers of clothing.

She had never kissed like this. Indeed, she had never even thought to. But her lips moved on instinct and her tongue danced with his as if it were its most cherished partner. His teeth grazed mischievously over her lower lip and her hands eventually wound themselves into his glossy hair, mussing it beyond recognition. She was not a seasoned enough lover to know or appreciate the difference, but she suspected he had a natural and uncommon skill for this sort of thing. Every electrified nerve-ending certainly seemed to concur.

She broke away, panting, when his hand traveled beneath her skirts; as much as her body burned for his touch, she knew she could not give herself to him.

"Loki," she breathed, eyes still shut and forehead rested against his.

"Yes?" he hummed, shifting.

"I can't," she nearly whined.

His mouth, wet and hot, went to work at her neck. Her skin had grown so fair that he would surely leave an angry trail. He nipped at her earlobe.

"You can't _what_?" she felt, rather than heard. He was teasing her in more ways than one and it was as infuriating as it was intoxicating.

"You know." She stifled a gasp when he redirected his attention to the patch of flesh where her neck met her shoulder.

"I don't," he mumbled against her skin with a smirk.

She leaned back slightly, but not out of his clutches. "A woman's virtue is her sole bargaining chip in this cruel universe," she told him more articulately. "I cannot relinquish it until I am married, until I can trust that I will not be used and deserted."

Loki finally tore away from her, lips smacking as he did. His eyes blackened for a reason other than lust and she felt an empty chill against her skin.

"I love you, Loki," she insisted vehemently. She swallowed a thick lump in her now-marked throat and averted her gaze for a moment, forcing back tears. Eventually she continued, "But I do not trust you."

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**Author's Note: Douchey Loki strikes again... Let me know what you think!**


	15. Resolution

**Author's Note: Thank you so so so so sososo (lol sorry) much to DKLL, K, 'another review,' 'Guest,' SirOlives, pestilence, bekahleck, and NoVacanyMind for reviewing the last chapter, and thank you equally to everyone who has reviewed any of the previous chapters. Your kind words have seriously helped me crank this baby out. This is the last chapter, guys, so I hope you all like it!**

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**CHAPTER XV**

**Resolution**

. . .

"Why did you come here," Loki snapped sourly. "Exactly what did you think was going to transpire?"

Persephone reeled back, utterly appalled. "What are you suggesting?" she hissed dangerously. "That I should have anticipated this?"

"You are a vile temptress," he accused in a biting tone. "Even someone so naïve as you should have realized the implications of this meeting – it was _you_ who threw yourself at _me_, after all."

Her features formed a look of genuine injury as she stood. "Do you feel anything at all for me in that ice heart of yours?" she demanded. "I have told you many times that I love you – but you have told me nothing of the sort. This is precisely why I say I cannot trust you."

Loki, too, scrambled to his feet. The shaded contours in his angular face made him look almost surreal in the moonlight.

"You betrayed my express orders – you revealed to Sif and the others my plan, which I told you explicitly you must not do. It was one of the terms of your freedom. Do you think I would not have made you answer for your crime if I cared nothing for you?"

Less hotly, he murmured, "Of course I care for you – I must. You have penetrated my 'ice heart,' as you say, just as traitorously as I have yours."

Persephone was stunned into silence, a vacant expression overtaking her face. A rogue tear made its way down her cheek.

"I want to believe you, Loki," she said finally. "But I cannot."

Passionately he clutched her hand in his, pressing it to his chest as if the beating of his heart could confirm his declaration.

"Allow me to prove it to you, then," he insisted. "Marry me."

She attempted to reclaim her hand, but to no avail. At first, she dismissed his words as mere ramblings, but the intense look in his eye made her rethink this estimation.

"_What_ did you say?" She balked at him as if he had gone completely mad. And perhaps he had.

"Marry me," he repeated with resolve.

She shook her head. "I see you are still drunk; you are not thinking clearly. You must sleep, surely you are very tired after all that has come to pass. Let us talk of this no more and in the morning your head will be cleared."

"You do not want to." The prior strength in his voice disintegrated into a sort of poisonous doubt.

"No, that's not –"

"Why not, then?"

"Loki," she scolded. "Do not suggest something so momentous when you have no intention of honoring it. Even you are not so cruel to toy with my heart in this way."

"Why do you think I jest? I am in earnest!"

She stared at him attentively, scouring his face in search of lies. "Truly?"

"_Yes_!" he said in exasperation.

She studied him still, skepticism carved into her features.

At some point, she said, "Tell me. Tell me you love me. I want to hear you say the words."

He did not flinch. Eyes gleaming keenly in the darkness of night, he stated, "I love you."

Persephone's heart melted on the spot.

"You will have to ask my father for permission…" she trailed off, breath hitching in her lungs. She still could not process the magnitude of this simple phrase.

Loki had not considered this, but did not let it deter him from extracting an answer. "Yes," he pressed. "And?"

"Well, yes, of course I would like to…"

He broke into a wide grin and impulsively kissed her cheek; inexplicably, he seemed to be more enthused than she was – perhaps because he was in control of the situation, while still she felt tragically vulnerable.

"But," she added, extricating herself from his embrace, "it is entirely possible that my father will deny us. He is far from fond of you, after that stunt you pulled."

"If he denies us, I will marry you all the same," he said flippantly, as if she were an item that he could simply take if he so pleased. Experience told him this was valid.

Persephone shot him another chary look. "I think it is time we go to bed. We have been awake for days on end." They might very well wake the next morning to find this entire conversation had been nothing but a fever-dream, she thought.

"Yes," he agreed, "And when the day breaks we will begin the preparations."

. . .

When a bleary-eyed Persephone first clamored out of bed, she went to wash her face and examine herself in the looking glass. Sure enough, vivid purple love-bites marred her ivory neck in various locations – evidence that last night's events had indeed occurred. She traced her fingertips over the bruises to find they felt no different than the rest of her skin, but their color was alarming.

Covering them as much as she could with her hair, she changed (back to her preferred purple, to match the blemishes) and set out. Loki had already marked her in one way. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her display yet another seal of his ownership.

He wanted to marry her; he wanted to make her _his_ _wife_.

He wanted to possess her.

Part of her was furious with this notion – the rational part. The love-struck, _ir_rational part could grin and bear it.

Were she to become his wife, she would also become his queen. This, she wagered, was an honor.

And she loved him.

And so she was doomed.

She wondered if she should have been more bothered that Loki had opposed her resisting him. He hadn't tried to force her to bend to his will, nor had he even come close – but he had certainly pressured her with words.

The chivalrous manners he had been raised to comport were at odds with his devious nature. They warred with one another inside him, though the side of nurture usually – _begrudgingly_ – won out. His gravest crime against her had come that one night in his bedroom, and she had seen in him repentance for that misconduct. Still, it did not absolve him.

She wondered what wedded life with him might be like. She was struck with a distinct sense of dread; she feared she had condemned herself to an alternating series of giddy highs and despairing lows.

Alas, it mattered not. She had told him she would marry him, and so she would – indeed, she wanted to. Ironically, the very one that sustained her would likely also be the death of her.

After meandering the halls in search of him for nearly half an hour, she decided to make her way to the library. If he wanted to find her, he could. He knew her favored haunts throughout the castle.

At midday, when the sun was at its highest, he appeared. Light trickled in through that enormous stained glass window, illuminating the whole of the library through a prism of color.

"I have made the arrangements to travel to Olympus," he told her bluntly. "Your father knows that we are coming, as well as the nature of the meeting."

"Has he said anything?"

"He sent nothing more than a mere confirmation that he had received my message."

Persephone nodded wordlessly as Loki strode to stand behind her. He gathered her hair and laid it tenderly over her right shoulder, regarding his handiwork with a smug sort of smirk.

Much as she had done, he traced the circular contusions with whispering touches. He clicked his tongue and said, with humor in his tone, "We can't have you wandering around the palace like this – it will cause a scandal."

To punctuate his statement he placed the softest of kisses on the offending area, his mouth matching up seamlessly with one of the marks.

She spun around to glower up at him through her eyelashes.

Still smirking, he took her by the shoulders and guided her to the widow. Again he moved to stand behind her, allowing her to observe her distorted reflection in the glass; the bruises had vanished. Her hand flew up to cradle her neck, as though checking to see that the skin there was still her own.

He watched her in the window, admiring how they looked together. They looked like a king and queen ought to, but not the King and Queen of Asgard. They were dark, perversions of the Aesir standard. It was fitting, as neither was Aesir.

"It's the simplest of tricks," he said huskily in her ear, his lips not more than a centimeter away. "I mastered it in my adolescence – it's proved to be quite useful."

She swore he had some sort of fixation with this part of her body, and true enough she could not help but wonder what a decidedly different aspect of wedded life might entail, if he would have a similar fixation with any _other_ part of her body. There was very little skin that he decorously had access to, and once they were married this would change considerably…

She could not deny that last night she had wanted him just as desperately as he had wanted her. She knew not what these foreign, coiling feelings were within her stomach; she knew only that they were soothed by his touch.

Desire was more visceral than love, but she found it equally baffling.

She exhaled a shaky sigh, gathering the fortitude to pull away.

"When do we leave Asgard?" she asked him, turning around and putting a much-needed gap between them.

"Tomorrow," he said smoothly. "I should like to get that pesky ceremony out of the way as soon as possible."

The flirtation in his tone had dissipated. It was hungry, now – predatory. Persephone almost gulped in trepidation.

He moved towards the door before expectation had time to take root in her.

"Be ready to depart by morning," he instructed on his way out.

. . .

Loki and Persephone arrived in Olympus at precisely the time he had planned. They travelled the Bifrost to Olympus' own portal, and then crossed the golden bridge that transected the wide river – the Styx – at the very edge of the realm.

Persephone was still in the astonished daze that had overtaken her two days prior; she could not believe that this was happening.

They strode – under close scrutiny – into the palace. All eyes were upon them – Loki seemed not to notice and, if he did, he seemed to vaguely enjoy being the center of attention. She thought she might have perceived the shadow of a smirk on his lips, but then again he _always_ seemed to be smirking.

Persephone stuck closely to his side, not sharing this sentiment. Nervousness knotted itself tightly in her stomach and she could feel her body heat up all the way to the tips of her ears.

Zeus received them in the throne room, which very much resembled Asgard's. His face was unreadable as they stood before his seated, elevated figure.

"Well, well, well," he boomed. "This certainly comes as a great surprise."

His and Hera's demi-god children – Persephone's own half-siblings – stood nearby on either side of their father, features betraying an unusual combination of defensiveness and curiosity. She swore she shrunk in their presence.

Demeter, her mother, was not permitted to be there.

She pressed her shoulder against Loki's arm, needing physical reassurance that she would not have to face these people alone. He made no indication that he felt this contact, his gaze instead fixed unshakably on Zeus.

"Your Highness," Loki very nearly sneered, inclining his head in a noncommittal bow. The contempt in his voice was almost tangible, and somehow he made the address sound like a condemnation.

"King Loki of Asgard and Jotunheim," said Zeus. "You told me once that you would present to me my daughter's head on a spike – I see now that you have changed your tune."

Persephone shot Loki an affronted and flabbergasted scowl, and he spared her something of a sheepish smile.

"I must admit," Zeus continued, "I am impressed. I am sure many have tried – and failed – to do what you have done. It takes a truly skilled manipulator to convince his prisoner to love him… Or," he glared critically at Persephone, "a very feeble-minded prisoner."

"I'd like to think it was the former," he drawled; his blithe disinterest disguised a fierce intent.

"Is it true, daughter," he asked the diminutive-looking woman, "that you have come to love this man?"

She felt her siblings' eyes boring into her like daggers and her voice seemed to momentarily escape her throat. Eventually she managed, "I have," despite her previous indignation. This sentence – clipped though it was – was uttered with conviction. Loki cast her a furtive and approving sidelong glance.

Zeus' lined face fell naturally into a pensive frown; he seemed to be considering his words with immense care.

"I have underestimated you, Loki Odinson," he said finally. "You are very different from your father, but you are formidable all the same. Perhaps I was wrong to write you off so quickly – I see potential in you, now. You might yet grow to attain the power you seek."

Loki gave him a puzzled look that conveyed he had no desire for more power than he already had, but it was not clear if this was indeed the case.

"You have proved yourself to be both calculating and farsighted," he elaborated, "which is why I find it difficult to fathom why you wish to marry my daughter."

"I hope to strengthen the alliance between our realms after what I have done to endanger it," he said cautiously. Any mention of _sentiment_ was conspicuously absent from his testimony.

Zeus mulled this over. "Do you love her?"

"I care for her," he replied in this same, guarded tone. His eyes shone with something unknown, but what could have been mistaken for earnestness.

The Olympian king was aware that Loki was evading using the word 'love,' while his daughter had been quite quick to declare her feelings. "You make no mention of love, though," he noted.

"Love is irrelevant," Loki bristled. Persephone did not mind that he would not admit to loving her, because she could tell immediately from his tone that he did. She was less easily tricked by his lies than she had once been, and his earlier confession was forever burned into her brain. To Zeus, this implication was a bit more obfuscated.

"You are clever," he said, continuing his unprecedented spree of compliments. "I think, perhaps, more clever than I. I am old, and my mind is not so sharp as it once was. Dionysus tells me daily that I grow senile – I sometimes wonder if he is not wrong. And so," he went on, "it unnerves me to accept your offer of marriage to my daughter. In fact, I'm afraid I must decline it. You may keep the troops I have given you and our alliance will remain fully intact, but you cannot marry my daughter."

Persephone's mouth flew open in shock and outrage, and Loki's fists clenched at his sides. Everything her father had been saying up until this point – all the flattery – had given her great confidence that he would accept – nay, _embrace_ – the proposition. Even her siblings seemed surprised by the sudden change in their father's approach.

"Father, I don't understand –" she protested.

"I do not trust him," he said firmly. "He is a snake. He will slither his way into Olympus' court and the next thing I know we will all be dying of his venom, and who but he will take my place as king?"

"I vow that I have no ulterior motives," Loki swore. "I wish only to fortify our alliance – nothing more."

"I can see it in your eyes – the hunger. The hunger and virility of a young man in search of power. You will never be sated."

Loki's temper broke.

"I merely asked for her hand as a formality," he spat. "I should not have allowed you so much as that. I _will_ marry her."

"You will not." Zeus' voice rumbled throughout the palace like a clap of thunder.

"I am not a pawn to be traded!" Persephone burst out, unable to restrain herself any longer. The way they spoke of her – like she was not even there. Like her opinion mattered nothing. Like they could decide her fate amongst themselves, like it was their place to do so. It was all too much to endure.

Riotous whispers broke out amongst her half-siblings.

Zeus stood abruptly, fire in his eyes and staff in clutched in his beefy fist, and put a prompt end to the noise. Loki reflexively put his arm in front of Persephone, who was still close at his side. At this, the aged king grinned broadly.

Still standing, he said, "You lied."

Loki furrowed his brow, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere. However, his daunting composure did not falter.

"You're going to have to be more specific," he replied warily.

"You said you did not love her," he clarified. "You lied."

Persephone was confused – she could not imagine that this factor played any part in her father's reasoning.

"What does it matter?" asked Loki.

"I suspected you did," he said, ignoring the question, "but this has proved it."

He paused for several moments, studying his bastard daughter, his own flesh and blood, as if it were the first time he was actually seeing at her – and perhaps it was.

"You have put ideas into her head," he said softly. "Headstrong ideas. Ideas that would not serve you well – I know better than most that headstrong women are the universe's cruelest joke. Alluring though they may be, they are a curse. You would not sabotage yourself in such a way unless you were blinded by love."

Loki pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose, unreservedly incredulous. This was an absurd assertion.

"I thought perhaps that you had chosen her because she is so effortlessly moved, because you were able to get her to love you. She is not an ideal candidate if you wish to secure any claim to Olympus' throne, but I thought perhaps she was all you could hope to secure. My other, legitimate daughters might not be so easily swayed by your charms. I thought you might give up quickly and move on to another option. But no – you would protect her, you fill her mind with thoughts that she is worth more than her status and her gender."

His sun-strained blue eyes peered penitently into his daughter's. "I know you think I care nothing for you," he told her. "But it is not true. I do not fear this king's haughty aspirations – there are limits even he must recognize. There are at least a hundred others between you and the crown. No – I have seen with my own eyes the brutality that this man is capable of. I thought that if he did not love you, you would be subjected to a life of utter misery. Perpetual, unrequited love is a fate I would sentence not even my most hated enemy to, let alone my own daughter. That, compounded with his vicious character, would make for a most loathsome hell."

"So you have reconsidered?" she asked before she could stop herself. She spun her head wildly to look at Loki.

His expression had become inscrutable; he almost respected Zeus for his intuition.

"Yes," he said, "you may marry him. Odin and I often spoke of a time when our children might wed and bring about a concrete link between Asgard and Olympus – it is astounding to consider that this has happened on its own accord. I wish only that he was around to see it."

Words seemed to fail Loki. He blinked rapidly several times, conscious that he had been tricked into revealing his feelings. While it both irked and surprised him, he was also impressed.

"Come, Persephone," he said eventually, "let us go."

Her heart fluttered at the sound of her name – her _true_ name, not _'little princess'_ – on his tongue.

"I wish you both the best of luck," said Zeus.

Again he nodded his head towards the Olympian king, this time without malice. The other smiled at the pair in fatherly mirth. Neither of the men said anything more.

Persephone and Loki, both changed, left the throne room.

And away they went, back to Asgard. They had a royal wedding to plan.

. . .

**THE END**

* * *

**Author's Note: It's done! I'm sorry that Loki doesn't speak much towards the end, but I was trying to convey how profoundly he was affected by Zeus' words; he's supposed to empathize with Persephone's relationship with her father in the sense that she is a bastard and she is treated like a pawn to be traded away as he sees fit.**

**I feel like despite this, Loki would be possessive over her in the sense that now that he has her and he's admitted that he cares about her he can't bear to let her go – the notion that she could leave/betray him is something that he's going to continue to struggle with, I think. Also, his last line is the only time he addresses her by her first name, which is supposed to signal that he thinks of her as more than just an object (which is what she fears that the beginning).**

**I hope Loki's marriage proposal was in character lol. He wasn't really thinking with his head at that moment, but I could see Loki being hasty with it, especially since he'd been considering it beforehand. And he is supposed to be a little drunk haha.**

**As for the scene when he moves to protect her/the chivalry thing, I got a lot of that from TDW and the way he interacted with Jane. He shields her with his own body in Svartalheim (so cute) and he's generally pretty polite to her. Natasha in the Avengers was a different story, but I like to think that when he's in Asgard he feels more in his element/like himself and the whole Avengers plotline was the darkest time in his life.**

**Sorry this A/N is so long! I just had so much I wanted to say! I would really love to hear what you guys think. I know some people only like to review at the end of a story, so if you've been reading all along and haven't reviewed yet, don't be shy! **

**Finally, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.**


	16. Epilogue

**Author's Note: Hey guys! Since some of you thought the ending was a bit abrupt and asked for an epilogue, I thought I'd add this bit. I hope you all like it!**

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

. . .

Even as Persephone laid herself to sleep the evening after she and Loki received her father's blessing, even as she spent the next day discussing with her betrothed what her queenly duties would encompass, and even as she awoke the morning of the ceremony to a bustle of maids and dressmakers, she cannot help but think there is a long way between her and the throne.

In all her life, she had never wanted for any title; she was a princess in blood only, and she had hardly received the same treatment as her more cosmopolitan siblings – no, she had led a simple life, and she had been content to do so. Power and status were nothing more than mere concepts for her, things that she understood but was too detached from to ever really consider in a proper capacity. Had anyone ever told her she would one day be queen, she would have laughed in his or her face.

And yet, here she stands.

In a frenzy of fear, she had spoken to Loki about it.

_They sat together on the balcony, both with their hands folded neatly in their laps. Although they were close, their posture did not convey the intimacy of two lovers, but instead of two confidants discussing a battle strategy. The kingdom of Asgard stretched out before them on the horizon, but their backs were turned to it._

"_Are you certain?" she hissed, eyes downcast and fixed on her hands. "Are you certain you would like to choose me as your queen?"_

"_I have thought about it at length," he retorted with ill-camouflaged irritation, as if it irked him that she thought he might not have given this matter its due consideration. "I would not have asked you to marry me if I were not certain."_

_She looked him in the face. "You were drunk when you asked."_

"_I was drunk when I _asked_, not when I made the _decision_ to ask," he countered fluidly._

"_You think I am up to the task?"_

"_Now, I think you're just fishing for compliments," he teased, unclasping his hands and bracing them against the railing on which they sat. Her scowl made it apparent that this was not a satisfactory reply, so he sighed and continued, "Thor once told me something along the lines of he recognized me better when I was under your influence…"_

"_You speak of me as if I were a drug."_

"_A medication, perhaps," he mused good-naturedly. His jollity transmuted into gravity as his eyebrows drew together. "Even I must admit that I am a sovereign prone to… let us call it excitation. I think perhaps it is best if my partner in ruling is a tempering force."_

"_And you think I am the best person to bear this burden?" she wondered ardently, shocked by his candor._

"_You may not see it. Even I may not see it. But my brother seems to think it is true. I feel it is my responsibility, if there is even a scrap of veracity in this claim, to honor it. A king and queen with a marriage based in love and stability are undoubtedly in the best interest of this nation."_

_Loki allowed several beats of silence to pass before he next spoke. _

"_I cannot promise you that I will be an ideal husband, or even a very good one. I cannot promise you that I will never hurt you, and indeed I think it quite likely that I will, profoundly and perhaps frequently. I cannot promise you that I will never shout at you, that I will never say horrid, vile things. I pray that you know this, that you understand."_

_Persephone opened her mouth to respond, but the words stuck in her throat. He took her inability to speak as a sign to go on, "I can promise you only that I do love you, truly and inalterably, and that no matter what I may say in the future this fact will remain unchanged."_

"_Loki," she managed, finding her voice, "I could not deny you, even if my reason told me to. I am tied to you no less than if I still wore those shackles you bound me with upon our first meeting – now, my bonds are internal and within my very own heart, but they are equally unbending."_

_She brought her hand to caress his face and he looked at her with unconcealed curiosity. _

"_There is no question of whether or not I agree to marry you," she continued. "I ask only if you are certain that I am the person you deem best for this monumental responsibility."_

_He smiled rather sadly and said, as if he were sentencing her to some punishment, "You are."_

They are wed in the throne room, on a platform slightly above the whole of the kingdom. As she and Loki stand across from one another, elegant and rigid like marble statues, she cannot help but feel more object than animate.

Loki's eyes are sharp and clear, piercing her soul like needles as he observes her. His expression, as custom requires, is blank, but he cannot tame his illimitable eyes.

She is almost unable to meet them. She feels ridiculous and self-conscious. Her body is constricted by foreign, Asgardian garments and laden with accessories. The dress she wore is white and cumbersome, comprised of some sort of silken fabric atop a thicker cotton base. Its train stretches on and on for an impractical length, necessitating several attendants when she walks.

Even more jarring is the fact that her head feels immensely heavy under the weight of her ornate hairstyle. Her chestnut locks are drawn back into a loose plait, with flowers interwoven in each section. All this extravagance is contained within a sheer veil, as is the native convention. Beneath this veil, a golden diadem wraps around her forehead and stops just above the start of her braid; this, in metallic addition to her earrings and necklace, creates the illusion of a sort of armor.

Despite this discomfort, she looks, as everyone professes, beautiful.

Loki's gaze more or less confirms this. He seems not to notice the thousands of pairs of eyes upon them, though she is frightfully aware of them; he sees only her, while she sees everything else but him.

Their audience is not only Asgardian – it is Olympian, too, which makes the ceremony all the more illustrious. Zeus sits near to Thor, witnessing this spectacle as if he were supervising a business transaction.

She prays this sort of attention is something one can grow accustomed to – indeed, Loki seems as at ease as a man who has grown up as a prince might. She, however, cannot match his poise.

Her feet shift in place until there comes a time when the officiator asks that they join hands. Then, _only _then, is she able to tune out her grandiose surroundings – when their skin touches, she is able to truly study him.

Loki himself does not look so different as he usually does; he wore his kingly attire, complete with his horned helmet. His long hair is coifed neatly beneath it, reaching nearly to the tops of his broad shoulders, but curling up purposefully before it makes contact with gold collar of his coat. When his hair is unkempt, she realized some days before, it holds a natural wave. Now, not even a strand is out of place.

He tugs one corner of his taut lips into a fleeting smirk, sensing her apprehension. The motion is meant to be reassuring, but the brevity of it only makes him look just as uncertain as she does.

His slender fingers sweep over the backs of hers.

They will spend the next centuries together.

This event – this moment she is living – will be recorded in the history books, remembered by all just as Frigga and Odin's marriage was.

Because this is not merely a marriage: it is a coronation. It is a treaty between realms.

Her knees wobble as this sets in. She can hardly hear the words that the officiator speaks. She notices only that Loki suddenly nods in assent and utters something to the effect of 'I do,' before placing a simple golden band on her finger. She can practically feel the crowd's stare then redirect towards her; she follows his example, fumbling with the identical ring provided. When this deed is done, he gives her dainty hand a little squeeze.

And then the room erupts into a celebratory uproar. Out of nowhere, several guards sweep her and her now-husband into a pair of chairs and carry them, side by side, towards the head of the feasting table.

Everything is a blur. Her heart races and she feels faint in all commotion – it is lucky that she is seated, for it was very possible that she would have collapsed otherwise.

As they are ushered away, voice like velvet, he whispers in her ear, "It's done, my love."

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm considering doing a separate 'wedding night' one-shot, but I'm not sure yet. Let me know if this sounds like something you'd like to read ;)**


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